The Pancake Murders
by ElasticPink
Summary: Greg gets kidnaped due to overexcitement, but when the CSI's go after him, they find themselves in a dizzying merrygoround of lies, abuse, and revenge. Note: Sometimes, excessively dramatic. Sometimes, silly. Some swearing. COMPLETED
1. Too Many Cases

**I**t was an ordinary day at the Las Vegas Crime Lab. It was busy with cases, as usual, especially on a bright summer day like this. The doors of offices and labs opened and closed so frequently that everyone inside CSI forgot what quiet sounded like. The workers' individual fans buzzed on and off because the central air unit was broken, so there was generally no space to sit and think - if there was time for stopping at all.

The heat and noise was especially getting to graveyard supervisor Gil Grissom. He had brought in his own air conditioner from home because his precious jarred specimens couldn't get overheated. Grissom was an entomologist, a serious scientist, and could remember every quote he'd ever heard. He also loved puns. Throw him a phrase and he'd catch it, then throw it back to you with a play-on word. But at the moment, Grissom was not in the mood for puns. He wasn't up to any kind of joking with Youkai. He was sweaty, and tired, and had just solved a very difficult case. Now he came back to his office to find a pile of new cases waiting to be solved. _Five more murders,_ Grissom thought. _Why is it always on the hot days?_

There was no time to lose, no matter how stressed he was. With a sigh, Grissom gathered up the papers and went off to the break room to find his team. As soon as Grissom left his office, he felt the intensity of the heat. When he walked into the couch-filled break room, he saw all of his CSIs tired and beat, stretched out on the cotton slipcovers. None of them looked up when he walked in. To get their attention, he gently rapped on the doorframe. The room fell silent.

"Listen up, team," said Grissom, holding up the files, "we've got five new cases. Since they are all important, and there's only five of us, I'm letting all of you work solo."

The team put all the strength they could muster into a soft, hoarse cheer. Grissom began calling out their names and handing each of them a paper with a full description of a case.

"Oh, joy," said Catherine Willows sarcastically, who was fanning herself with a folded obituaries section of the newspaper. "A hiker found dead in the _desert_."

"I expect all of you to use your best judgement, and act as though I was there to watch over you. Don't try to speed up the cases just because you want to get home. Good luck." Grissom turned to exit, but then looked around. "And no trading," he added, trying to lighten up the situation. And he walked out the door.

The CSIs looked glumly at one another. "Well, we'd best be going now," said Nick Stokes, getting up and stretching. He was excited to get a solo case. He always was. "Enjoy your cases, comrads, I've got one in an _air conditioned_ casino!"

Grissom watched the team filter out of the break room, and then turned down the hall to the office of Greg Sanders, a trainee CSI. He usually worked with Grissom, at least until he passed proficiency test to become a Level 1. The spiky-haired young man looked up from the book he was reading and smiled. Greg jumped up from his chair, throwing aside The Pancake Murders, looking ready to go. "Hey boss," he said, grinning despite the heat, "where we off to today?"

Grissom looked around Greg's tiny office. It still had most of the lab equipment there form when he was a CSI techie. Grissom saw that Greg has positioned his fan so that it blew on his face, giving his already heavily gelled hair the look as though he had just gotten out of a convertible on a windy day. The supervisor looked back into the determined face, but he had to put it down. "I'm sorry Greg," said Grissom. "Not today. We really need you to work in the Lab today. There's going to be a lot of DNA coming your way, and we don't want our cases backed up on such a busy day."

"Oh." Greg looked disappointed, but Grissom was sure he understood. Back in his lab days, there were tons of times where there was simply too much DNA waiting to be processed for any of it to be done on time. "Okay."

"Great," said Grissom, trying to cheer up the normally eccentric trainee. "I'll send Sara and Warrick's cases to you, then." Grissom turned to go to his own case, hoping that he hadn't made Greg too downtrodden. Once in a while, he had to let someone down, but this was the first time he had ever seen Greg that glum. _He'll get over it,_ said Grissom, shifting his brain into murder mode.

Now they were all gone.

I hope you like it, it'll get much more interesting during the next chapters. I hope. Otherwise, they'll come get me. I don't know how, somehow they'll find me, I- No...not now! Get away! I've got sprinkles! And some popcorn! Okay, I think they're gone. Review now. Or so help me, I'll come over there and MAKE you..uh...uh...eat ice cream.

Please review! I loves me some reviews.


	2. Water on the Floor

**G**reg poked his head out of the door and looked up and down the hallways. So this is what quiet sounded like. He had never seen the crime lab so deserted. Usually, there was someone around that he could bother into letting him help with their case. But today, it was empty. All the CSIs were out on cases. To coroners gone to fetch new bodies, the cops all out getting records and such for the CSIs. The only people around were David Hodges in hakuryu trace, Archie in video sound, and Bobby in ballistics. However, none of them were very friendly with Greg.

Greg sat back down on his chair and put his feet up on the desk. He buried his nose deep into The Pancake Murders and turned the volume up on his radio. _That's more like it_, he thought, _a bit of relaxation before work. The others are probably out there sweating like dogs while I'm cooled off by my fan. They don't know what they're missing_! Greg tried to concentrate on his book tried to think about how comfortable in his office on his nice, comfortable chair, tried to think about how hot he'd be if he were outside...but his mind kept flooding back to how he wanted to be out there with the others. Especially Sara. Maybe she'd go out with him if he became a CSI instead of a nerdy kid cooped up in a lab.

He was so involved with thought about when he would become a real CSI that he didn't notice someone poking him hard on his should with a cell phone antennae, which broke off as Greg turned down his music and put The Pancake Murders on his desk. "What?" said Greg. "What do you guys ne..." he trailed off.

"Dammit," said a tall person Greg had never seen before. "Now I have to get a new one." Greg had half a mind to call security, but saw an ID tag hung plainly around this person's neck: _Sam P. Waters_. This person wore a crisp blue suit with a black and white checkered tie. His hair was flat and brown and looked cleaner than a vacuumed rug. This was Greg's opportunity to act professional - he quickly straightened up and said "Can I help you?" He added "sir," to show his manners.

"Yes," said the man in a distinct New York accent. "My name is Sam Waters, and I was wondering if Miss Sara Sidle is around."

Greg stared at Mr. Waters with utmost attention. Who would be looking for Sara and why? Naturally assuming that Sam was a former boyfriend or current boyfriend of Sara's, he coldly said "No. She's not around at the moment."

"Oh." Waters looked annoyed. Greg, expecting him to leave, reached for his book again, but then he spoke again. "Well, then, is Miss Catherine Willows here?"

"No," said Greg, sighing and kind of wishing this man would get off his back. If he was looking for a date, this was hardly the place or time to do it.

But Waters didn't leave. "Is..Mr. Nick Stokes around, then?"

"No," Greg said again, starting to sound like a broken record. Now he was getting rather curious about the man's intentions. "None of them are here. In fact," he stood up importantly, "if you need to talk to a CSI, I'm the only one available."

"Really?" Waters eyed Greg's hair and rugged t-shirt, and glanced around the messy lab. "_You're_ a CSI?"

"Yes," said Greg, angrily. This guy was obviously judging his intelligence by looks alone. "I'm CSI trainee, Greg Sanders."

Waters raised his eyebrows and looked away as though thinking hard. Then, something dawned on him and smiled, approaching the desk again. "Is that so? A trainee at this Lab? Well, Mr. Sanders, I am from the Carson City Crime Lab, and I wanted to, um, recruit someone from this here place. Someone experienced. But who's more experienced than a former techie? You guys probably know a lot more than we give you credit for! I'd like to make you a real CSI Level One. Will you take this once-in-a-lifetime offer?"

It took a moment for these words to impact. The last couple of phrases made him sound more like a telemarketer than a professional CSI at Nevada's capitol Crime Lab. But then Greg let out an excited gasp and pondered again on the thought of being out there in the field. It was his dream! His dream to leave this godforsaken Lab and go outside. As he thought this, he looked around the Lab. All this stuff was in here because he needed it. "I'd better not," he said. "Grissom would be mad if I left. I'm supposed to be an extra DNA guy today."

"Don't worry about Mr. Grissom," said Waters. "We will inform him of your, um, transfer. You will be working in stuffy labs no longer, Mr. Sanders. You'll be in the open air with our state's finest CSIs! Don't even stop to think about your past here!"

His enthusiasm wasn't a bit reassuring. It sounded as though this guy was hyped on some other thought, not the thought of bringing in a rookie as a new CSI to his Lab. "So-so you'll tell him I'm with you?" Greg first wanted to make sure he wasn't going to get into trouble with his boss. After all, he had a piece of dirt on him that could keep him from becoming a CSI at all.

"Oh, yes," said Waters, and he grinned broadly at Greg. Greg sort of smiled back, as though there was a small joke they both just shared. Forgetting he was supposed to be working for the good of the Lab, forgetting how he might let five people down if he left, and forgetting that he was just a techie, Greg followed Waters out of the offices and into the Vegas sun.


	3. Sometimes I Cry and Smile at Once

**N**ick shouldn't have gotten optimistic about his case. It turned out that the Vegas Crime Lab wasn't the only place with a busted central air unit. "At least I'm not in the desert," he muttered as he fumed a deck of cards for prints. "And at least there's no Grissom hovering over my shoulder, making sure I'm doing it all right." Nick always wanted a solo case, but now that he had one, he realized it wasn't all he thought it would be. A grey spot that looked like a smudge appeared on one of the cards. "Aha," Nick said, carefully tape-lifting the print. He turned around to put it back into his field kit and nearly hit his head on the blackjack table. Someone _was_ hovering over his shoulder.

David Phillips, the slightly-twitchy coroner was standing behind Nick so closely that Nick could've raised a hand and smacked David on the nose. He stood up, breathing heavily and clutching his ribs. "S-sorry Nick," said David, "But there's something you might want to see."

David led Nick from the blackjack tables down a long row of slot machines. He turned left onto another row, hastening his pace. At the end of the third row, David pointed to the end; there was something on the floor that looked horribly like -

"Oh, crap," Nick cursed, folding his arms in protest as though he wasn't going to believe it.

"There's a third one, too," said David miserably. He pointed to another row and sure enough, there was another body there.

Nick's face went pale. This felt horrible like his very first case. Except that this time, he was by himself. "These...are they part of this murder?" David shrugged. Nick was a bit panicked - there was no one left at CSI to cover for him, or help him out. "David!" he said in annoyance. "How come a full casino didn't notice these other two bodies here? Was it just assumed that they were all part of the same case??"

David looked taken aback. "Hey, don't kill the messenger," he said. "If you need some help, call Grissom, don't look at me. It's not my job to find out the who or why - I just find out what killed 'em."

Nick shook his head in disbelief. "No, no, no!" he said, even though he knew saying this wouldn't make his problems disappear. "David, how am I supposed to solve something like this one my own?" David shrugged again, and decided to go get his guys to collect the bodies before Nick went crazy on him. Nick reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone. "Screw this," he said. "Screw a solo case. I need backup. I'm calling Grissom." And before he could stop himself and think about how this might be brought up in the future, he dialed his supervisor's number.

"Grissom," came a voice from the other end.

"Gris, I need backup," said Nick desperately into the receiver. "Is there anyone at all available?"

"Nick, come on," said Grissom haughtily. "You've always said how you wanted an exciting solo case, so I got you one." He chuckled.

The corners of Nick's mouth twitched. Oh, so this was just one of Grissom's ironic jokes? Was he trying to prove a point that he thought Nick couldn't handle a solo? Well, he wasn't going to fall into Grissom's trap. "Oh, exciting, hmm?" he said, restraining his anger. "Well, if you find one person possibly trying to solve two cases at once amusing, go ahead and laugh. Laugh your head off. And when it comes off, mail it to me. I can do this on my own if I have to. I don't need your stinkin' help. Goodbye Grissom." Nick pulled the phone away from his ear to label hang up, but heard his boss's voice again.

"Two cases? What do you mean?"

Nick got back on the line. "Yeah. Two cases." His anger was dissolving, and he began to feel stupid - how could Grissom possibly know what David found?

There was a pause. Then came a small static noise as though Grissom blew into the receiver in a sigh. "Okay, Nick. Give Greg a call. I'm sure he'll appreciate it." Then there was a click as Grissom hung up. Nick snapped his phone closed, then reopened it. He put the earpiece to his mouth in thought. _What's Greg's cell number again?_

"Oh, yeah," he mumbled, and dialed the number. It rang. And rang. "I could be wrong," he said to himself as an answering machine picked up. He clicked his phone closed again and looked up, shaking himself out of a daze. "David!" He called, "let's wrap it up. I need to get back to the lab."

"Just finishing," said David as his crew lifted John Doe #3 onto a stretcher.

As Nick drove back in his car, he checked the outside temperature in the rearview mirror. 105°. Damn, it was hot.

He was welcomed back into the lab by the sole fan that was blowing in the hall. Even this was better than the stuffy casino crime scene. He went to the DNA lab to drop off the things he needed processed. "Hi, Mia," he said to the lab girl.

"Hey," she said back, but didn't look up from the microscope she was staring into. "Just put the stuff on the desk and I'll get to it when I can." She gestured with her hand towards the desk that was piled with files and bottles and bags.

"Backed up already?" Nick folded his arms. "Guess Grissom and Catherine got here before me."

"Not exactly," mumbled Mia. She looked stressed out - her hair was coming out of her ponytail and her face was flushed. "I guess Sanders is out in the field after all. Grissom said he'd take Sara and Warrick of my hands, but both of them dropped off their stuff by me."

"What?" Nick was confused. Greg was working already? Then why hadn't Grissom told him that? Wait. He smiled to himself. Maybe this was Grissom's plan all along; he had put Greg on the field to discreetly tell Nick that he thought he had the potential of solving two cases at once. It was so discreet because Gris didn't want the others to get jealous...but no. He was getting egotistical again, Grissom would never do a thing like that, it was highly illogical. His smile faded. Then why _was_ Greg gone?

He made his way to the break room where he found both Sara and Warrick in a friendly conversation. They waved as he came in. Nick was confused by the calm looks on their faces.

"Aren't you two supposed to be working?" asked Nick, flabbergasted. By the look of how comfortable they were, they had been there at least 10 minutes. Nick looked at his watch and saw it had only been about 2 hours since he was last here.

"Man, my case was one of the easiest I've ever had," said Warrick. "Dead man found in a lake. 'Bout ten feet away there's a real nice boat. On this boat, we find fingerprints that match the vic and his brother - Mick Suthers, I think his name was. Anyway, in the interrogation room, I found blood and skin cells under his fingerprints. I brought it to DNA to see who's blood it was - but I just learned from the coroner- " Warrick pointed down the hall to a double-doored office "-the vic's COD was drowning. PLUS, there were fingernail marks on his scalp. Doesn't take me five minutes to put two and two together. I'm just waiting for the results to come back from DNA."

"Wait, wait, _mine_ was the real joke," said Sara, taking a bite of an apple. "I had 'the kidnaping of Erika Boley.'" Her voice became slightly muffled as she chewed the apple. "When asking questions after looking around a bit, I discovered that Erika Boley was a lost barbie doll. I said 'Look, kid, I'm not a lost and found.'"

"So, what did you bring back to DNA?" Nick asked. "Mia told me she got some stuff form you."

"Oh, crap!" Sara sat up so fast that she choked on the apple. Then she laughed. "I better take it back, I don't actually need it anymore. And it seems as though she's go her hand's full with little Greggy working on the field."

"Speaking of which," said Nick as Sara raced past him, "how do you know Greg's out in the field?"

Warrick shrugged. "Naturally assumed," he said.

"Why wouldn't Grissom tell you where he was? If he was gone on a case, you would have known in advance, wouldn't you?"

Sara came back in, still chomping down on her apple. At Nick's words, he chewing slowed down a bit. "Maybe..it was an emergency," she said. "He might not have had time to call us. Grissom needed...Greg's...help..?" The chewing came to a complete stop when she realized what she was saying. There was a moment where they all just stared at each other. Then Sara shook herself free of her idolatry, and said "No. He must be off on a case."

Nick was doubtful. He looked around the room, trying to think straight. "Even Grissom...doesn't know he's gone." Nick worded this sentence carefully as to not trigger to many questions. But lucky for him, they were both too anxious to find that information suspicious. At these words Sara raced back out of the room. The boys followed, wondering where she was off to now.

They found her prying around in Greg's lab. She hastily opened cupboard after cupboard in a desperate search for any clues as to where he was. She stopped at the desk an kneeled down next to it. "Look at this book," she said, pointing at The Pancake Murders. "Greg was reading this before, right? Look how it's splayed out - if he was going to go on a case, he would've closed it. He was going somewhere he thought wouldn't take long."

"Look, he probably stepped out to get a snack," said Warrick. "You don't need to make yourself nuts, Sara. I'll call him." Warrick dialed the number.

A faint ringing sound came from the desk. Sara took a pen from her pocket and used it to lift up the book. A small silver cell phone was buzzing under it. Warrick closed his phone, staring. "He's not supposed to leave the lab without it..."

"Do you think he's still in the building?" asked Nick. With a last look at each other, the boys spread out around the Lab, looking in every room and office for their spiky-haired coworker. But no such luck. Nick and Warrick walked back to Greg's office back to Sara, and shook their heads in disappointment. Sara was looking just as downcast as they were, and she held something in her arms to tell them why.

"I found his field kit," she said, opening a metal case that was filled with CSI tools. "And he only has one. He wouldn't go on a case without it. He couldn't."

"Well, let's not jump to any conclusions now, Sara," said Nick in a would-be soothing voice, but he was also filled with a little panic. "He's just a kid after all. He could forget."

"No!" said Sara, avoiding Nick's eye. "I've been here for nearly an hour. He would have to come back by the, wouldn't he?" She closed her eyes. "Oh, this is all my fault. I said the other day that I wanted him to disappear. I didn't mean it, I just meant...oh.."

"No one's blaming anyone for anything," said Warrick. "We just need to calm -"

"Nick! Warrick! Sara! You should all be working!" Grissom came up behind them so that he parted his way through the office entrance. He saw Sara with her head down, holding the field kit like it was her childhood toy. "Sara, come on now, and get up. Are you getting emotional about the kidnaping of Erika Boley I gave you?"

Sara looked grimly back at her boss, and brushed a stray hair away from her face. "No, Grissom. I'm done with that case. I have a new one - the kidnapping of Gregory Sanders!"

Note: Is the new lab girl's name Mia? I think it is...that's what took me so long on this chapter.


	4. There's Room for You Inside

**G**reg put his hand on the passenger-side window as he stared out into the cold. The rain was splattering hard on the ground and splashing into the already giant puddles that the car then drove through. He looked around to see if he could spot some familiar house or a road sign so he could possibly find out where he was. It seemed to take hours upon hours to get where they were going, and the gloomy dark surrounding wasn't helping to lighten the mood.

Waters hadn't said a word since they had left the parking lot, nor did he turn on the radio to break the haunting silence. He kept both hands on the wheel and his eyes focused on the deserted road ahead of them. The windshield wipers were swaying to and fro, but the rain was so heavy, Greg couldn't see anything at all. Where were they that the weather was the opposite of that in his home town? His stomach jumped at this thought; it had probably been hours, and Waters still hadn't contacted Grissom, or anyone, for that matter. Greg turned to the driver and opened his mouth.

"Mr. Waters?" Greg said, softly. There was no response. He repeated. "Mr. Waters!" Waters gave him the merest half-glance that either told him that he was listening, or to shut up. Greg preferred to interpret it the "I'm listening" way, and continued what he was going to say. "Can..I call Grissom now? I bet he's worried about me."

Waters gave Greg a calm look, and said "Oh...he's probably busy with a big case or something. Supervisors always get the hardest jobs."

Greg frowned. "That's not true," he said. "I worked on a tough case with Catherine once, and Grissom was done with his by the time we brought our first batch of evidence to trace."

Waters smiled, but it looked like he was forcing it. "Of course. You're right. But anyway, I phoned ahead, and told my crew to fax this Mr. Grissom information about us recruiting you."

Greg became more disconcerted by this statement than he was before. "That's not true, either. You never used your phone the whole time I was here."

Waters' smile became more forced, and a little bit scary. "Yes. I was just testing you to see how observant you were. You passed." His face relaxed, and his eyes went back to the road. Greg, however continued to stare. "'Just testing' my ass," he thought, brow furrowed. "That was a bad cover for a bad lie."

He turned back to the window to think things over. He was just a stupid kid, trusting this guy. What was he doing here? Didn't he like it better back at the Las Vegas Crime Lab? Did he honestly believe that becoming a CSI at a big city Crime Lab would make Sara like him? Was it even about Sara? "Mr. Waters," he said. "I've changed my mind. I...really don't want to do this anymore. Can you..take me home?"

"Of course," said Waters, not looking at Greg. This made Greg smile, and he sat back in the chair comfortably. But his smile faded after a few minutes passed and Waters did not oblige to his request. He felt like a broken record, having to repeat himself so much. "I want to go home." he said again. This time, Waters merely nodded and kept driving.

Greg became scared. He was in a car with a man he did not know, heading to only God knows where. "Oh, God," he thought, in a kind of prayer, "I'm being kidnaped! No-" a voice in the back of his mind interrupted. "Don't jump to conclusions. Maybe we're going to Carson City after all, and Sam Waters just has an obnoxious personality." Greg glanced over a the driver again. "_Very_ obnoxious," he thought. Either way, he decided to sit tight and see where they were headed. If it wasn't a crime lab...he'd just get out of the car and run the hell away from there. Wherever they were going, there had to be a police station nearby...right?

A blinding light suddenly cut the darkness. Waters began to slow the car down, and he put on a true smile. He spoke. "Do you like mystery stories, Mr. Sanders?" Greg thought this was his way of starting up a friendly conversation. Sighing in relief, Greg nodded his head. As the car came to a complete stop, Waters added, "Then your night is about to get much more interesting."

Greg stared, stunned, as Waters got out of the car and locked the doors behind him. That wasn't friendly...in fact, that was vaguely threatening. He should get out of here - now.

He looked around for options about what to do, as Waters walked outside up to a car with its brights on and started talking to the person in the driver's seat. Opening the doors and running out would cause the alarm to go off, plus he would run straight into the other car. He had to move the car. He could hot-wire it; he had learned how to from a book once...but it was only to be used in dire situations. No! This _was_ dire. His life felt threatened, that was reason enough. By coincidence, of course, the second car's headlights were extinguished as Greg kneeled down to view the wires by the foot space of the passenger-side seat. Luckily, he always carried around a small flashlight in his breast pocket. He reached into his jacket and turned on the little light, looking for the red and yellow wires. He smiled to himself a bit, thinking "why is it always the red wire? Why isn't it the green wire ever?"

"There it is," he said, reaching for it, just as he heard a knocking at the window. Greg continued his handiwork. If he was fast enough, he could get away before Waters had time to get back into the car.

"Hey! Open up!" called the same person from the window. Greg continued to ignore him. Where was that stupid yellow wire? He searched frantically. "Open up, or I'll break this window onto your head!" called Waters from the window. Greg froze. He looked up, flashlight still in hand, and looked out at the so-called CSI. Actually, it might not be him...it was hard to tell because of the dark. "Get out of the car, now," came the same voice. And Greg's flashlight brought enough light to tell that whoever it was at the window was holding a gun against it.


	5. After All, it's Not Easy

**R**ain soaked his clothes, hair, and skin as Greg was pulled out of the car. He felt and urge to cry: he really _was_ being kidnaped. He remembered when he was little when his mother would tell him not to take candy from strangers. "I should have applied that idea to job offers, too," he thought miserably. "This is all my own fault."

Waters held him firmly by the arm, threatening the use of his .33 caliber if he tried anything "funny." "And don't even think about calling one of your friends," he muttered in Greg's ear, "or I'll see to it personally that you'll be reading their names in the obituaries tomorrow."

A man got out of the second car and lit up a cigarette. Waters went over to greet him. "Dave," he said, "here's the CSI I promised you. Now, can I have that money that_ you_ promised _me_?"

Greg was now scared and confused. Why the hell would this guy, Dave, want a CSI? Maybe this was a gig after all...some people did drastic things to find out how a loved one died, even kidnaping someone to collect evidence and solve the case. How unfortunate this theory wasn't correct.

"Excellent," said the man called Dave. "I can now see to it that the Las Vegas Crime Lab gets what's coming to them and goes down a notch. We'll just watch as the CSI's can't even solve the death of one of their own. Hand him over, Roger."

Greg's face went pale as he was pulled forward into the hands of someone who meant to kill him. Overcome by fear, he couldn't feel any other emotion: not the outrage that Waters had used a fake name; not the regret of leaving home; not the confusion of why he was going to be killed; nor the desperation of whether anyone at the Lab realized he was gone.

David grabbed Greg by the face to take a look at him. Greg caught a glimpse of a man in his mid 30's with glasses and longish blonde hair before he was pushed back.

"It's just a kid!" David said, tossing his cigarette to the ground. "You're not getting any cash out of me for this one. No."

"He is _not_ 'just a kid,'" said Roger, and if Greg were in the right state of mind, he would have said "damn straight!" "Go on, Gregory, tell him."

All eyes and the barrel of a gun were on Greg. He didn't know what to do. He didn't want to keep his mouth shut for fear of getting killed. He didn't want to tell this David that he was a CSI trainee for fear of getting laughed at. This whole matter was laughable - a criminal relying on the victim to confirm that he had indeed held up his end of the bargain. Suddenly feeling braver than he had all night, Greg answered.

"Only if you first tell me what you're planning to do with me."

Grissom himself did a thorough search of Greg's office, but found no trace of where he might be. After a few minutes of analyzing the desk, he said "Alright. Let's think about this logically."

"How would a kidnaper just walk in here and walk out without being noticed?" asked Warrick, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded. He stared around. This had never happened before, as far as he knew. If someone had gotten in and drawn a weapon on a CSI, they usually had backup. But no one was around today, and Greg had no weapon. Poor guy didn't stand a chance...

"The kidnaper must have known that no one would be around to back him up," said Nick, voicing what Warrick was thinking.

"We can't be sure of anything," said Grissom, "but until we know something, we're gonna treat this office like a crime scene. So, Sara, get up. Come on."

Sara was still sitting in the middle of the floor, holding Greg's field kit. But she nodde din obedience and stood up to follow the others out of the room.

"You three, work as hard as you can possibly work, and get him back here in one piece," said Grissom. "Put him on the Missing Persons database, check every detail of the Lab. Do whatever it takes."

"Where are you going?" asked Nick.

"I'm taking over your triple homicide, Nickie," said Grissom. "Someone has to solve _that_ case, too. Good luck." He left.

Nick, Sara, and Warrick sat, stunned. They stared at one another, thinking of where to start, what to do. This was going to take all the effort they could give, and more. Their thinking was interrupted by Catherine's return, and she looked in on them.

"Well, you're a happy group," she said. "Waiting for DNA results I suppose. Have you seen Greg? Mia's a bit backed up."

"No," answered Warrick. "He's been kidnaped."

"Really?" said Catherine, but she seemed more intrigued than horrified. "Well, his car's still here. Maybe you should search that instead of just sitting here like lumps."

Sara sat up. "Car?" she said, and ran out the door. Nick and Warrick shrugged, and followed her again. This time, she was bent over a set of tire treads leading from the parking lot. Nick sat down next to her. "Would you stop doing that?" he said.

Warrick smiled. Sara photographed the tracks and lifted them for comparison in the database. This was the first step to finding their co-worker. You could even call him...a friend.

"Right!" said Nick, shaking out of shock. "We've got to pull ourselves together. The more we stall, the later we'll find Grego. Sara, go run that through the database - and while you're at it, add him to Missing Persons. Warrick, you go talk to security. I'll check the tapes. Let's go!"

His energy was annoying, but nevertheless, he had a point. They couldn't sit here sulking if they wanted to find him before tomorrow. They had to take action. So, they followed Nick's orders and went into the building.

Half an hour later, Sara and Warrick met Nick in the studio, where he was staring at the same 20 seconds of tape over and over again. He turned around when they approached him. "So, you guys get anything?"

Sara was the first to bring the news. "Okay...I got a match to the tires." Nick smiled, which made her quickly say, "Nick, don't. It's a Nissan Altima, one of the most popular cars in the country. But..." she flipped through some papers she was holding. "...the good news is that no one in the building owns one, so it's probably the kidnaper's car. Plus," she added, holding up a 7-stapled page booklet, "I printed out a list of all the owners of the car in Nevada. Just in case something rings a bell."

Warrick took his turn. "I showed a picture of Greg to the security guard. He said he saw him leaving with a tall brunette guy. But here's the weird part." He paused. "This guy had an ID badge from a Crime Lab in Nevada. Not this one, but still. And get this - the guard says that Greg _followed_ him out."

"What!" Sara cried. "That means he wasn't taken out by force! He _wanted_ to go."

"Hmm.." said Nick. "That's what the video says, too."

He turned back around to show the others his discovery. The screen showed two people walking out the front door of the Lab - a tall person with flat hair and a shorter person with spiky

hair following.

"Wait, go back to where he first comes in," said Sara, leaning over Nick's head and clicking the mouse so that the tape went backwards. She waited until someone she didn't recognize appeared on the screen, then she clicked the mouse again, making it stop. She smiled. "Caught on tape." She enlarged the stranger.

"I don't see a gun," said Warrick. "He was unarmed when he entered the building."

"No doubt about it," mumbled Nick. "Greg left the Lab of his own free will."

"He had an ID, whoever he is," said Sara. "He had authority over Greg. He could have said that he was a suspect, and he needed to come with him to rule him out."

"He could have said _anything_," said Nick, frustrated. "It doesn't matter how and why anymore. It just matters _who_ and _where_."

"Well, we have an idea of the who," said Sara, enhancing the face of the culprit on the screen. "He can lead us to the where."

"Okay, so our only evidence is tire tracks and a blurry picture," said Nick. "What should we do now?"

"I thought _you_ were going to tell _us_," said Sara. "You've been ordering us around and acting like you're our head."

"Excuse me," said Nick, turning his chair around again to face the other two. "But it we had it your way, we'd all be sitting around in a circle, regretting all the wrong we've done to Greg recently."

"Children, stop fighting!" said Warrick, holding Sara back from her attempt to pummel Nick. "Settle down, both of you. We have to solve this important case, and you two are bickering like a bunch of angry British chaps. So either stop, or I'll report you both."

Sara stopped struggling against her restraint and fell silent. Nick sighed, put his hand on his head and asked, "Okay. So what do _you_ suppose we do?"

"We should do what we would do in any other case," he said. We'll go back to the crime scene and re-evaluate it. See if we missed anything." Crime Scene. It seemed weird calling Greg's office that. It made it sound like he was dead. He hoped he wouldn't be when they found him.


	6. All that You Touch and All that You See

**S**ara, Nick, and Warrick made their way back to Greg's office, and took out their flashlights and forceps. This didn't seem to be any use; any fingerprint on the doorknob was covered or smudged by one of their's; any hair had probably been trampled on so many times that the DNA tag had fallen off. They didn't know how much more time had passed, but Sara was getting tired of dead ends. She threw down her forceps in frustration.

"Forget this," she said. "We've looked so many times, how likely is it that we'll find anything new? We should just screw this and go look for a new Lab boy with spiky blonde hair who likes Marilyn Manson and surfing and cars. I'm sure there are many out there. He'll probably by long dead by the time we can reach him anyway!"

"Sara!" said Nick. She often got overemotional, but this case was certainly different. Therefore, she was bound to get ever more emotional. "Relax. We'll find him."

Sara stared down at the floor, and recovered her forceps, but did not pick her head back up. She paused, still looking at the floor. She snagged a small, black plastic tube from the rug, and looked at it in the light. "Nick," she said, "I think I got something."

"Looks like...the antennae of a cell phone," said Warrick, examining it carefully. "You break yours, Sar? Nicky?"

They both checked their pockets, but sure enough their phones were completely intact. Warrick got up and shuffled through the papers strewn all over Greg's desk until he found the silver cell phone that rang when he had called it earlier. But that antennae was also whole. Sara phoned her boss.

"Grissom."

"Yeah, is your cell phone broken?"

There was a pause.

"No. What -?"

Sara hung up in excitement and held back the urge to jump for joy. It didn't belong to anyone else who had been in the room, and it didn't belong to the victim; it must be the kidnaper's...and it must have fingerprints on it. All the other evidence was insufficient if they could just get a match off this. Sara bagged it and ran off to fume it.

For five minutes that felt like hours, the three of them stared and watched as a thumb print slowly appeared along the black cord. "Gotcha," muttered Sara, dusting it, lifting it, and running it through the CSI database. "You little shit, if you're one of us, you mistakenly left your guilty, sweat-ridden fingerprints behind. Oh, I'll find you. You'll regret the day you ever-"

"Uh, Sara," said Nick, tapping her on the shoulder, "a, you're talking to yourself again, and b, we got a match."

Sara jumped, excited. She smiled mischievously, looking at the face of the suspect. "It's definitely the guy on the camera," she said printing out his picture. "I recognize the stupid haircut. Roger Mason, Carson City Crime Lab."

"Carson City?" said Warrick. "That's a long way out."

"Yeah," said Nick. "But we have to go."

Without another look back, they exchanged a final glance at each other and piled into the car.

"Hang in there, Greg. We're coming to bring you home."

Greg expected to hear the blast of the gunpowder any minute now. He could feel the cold barrel against the back of his neck. The rain mingled with his sweat, as they ran down in beads along his face. This was the end. But there was only silence. No one had spoken, not a sound had been made, since Greg made his final request from Roger.

"...all right then, Gregory," he said at last. "I must admit, those many hours we spent together in the car has made me quite fond of you. So before you die, I might as well tell you a bedtime story. I was hired to kidnap a CSI from the number one crime lab in the country. Any CSI would do. I figured a woman might be easier to manipulate, but when none were available, I tried for anyone I could get."

While he spoke, he walked around to face Greg, but still kept him covered at every angle. He smiled.

"It's pretty unsuspecting when a professional from a big city crime lab comes in asking for help in a case. But still, why hurt my reputation by using my real name, just in case I got caught?" He laughed. "Don't feel too hard, boy. Even an experienced supervisor would be fooled. Great plan, eh?"

Greg opened his mouth to ask another question, but Roger seemed to read his mind.

"Why did I do it? Davy here calls me up one day and offers me half a lifetime of paychecks to drive a scientist down a deserted interstate and leave him there. Who am I to refuse?"

"That's enough, Roger," said David. "Don't be an idiot."

"It's not like he'll be alive long enough to tell anyone else."

"You should still shut up," said David, lighting up a second cigarette. "What if someone hears you?"

Even though he couldn't see, Greg had a sneaking suspicion that Roger had just rolled his eyes. "Jeez, lighten up. I don't even know what _your_ plan is."

"You must have some idea," David said.

"Nope."

"Oh, come on!" David was positively hysterical. "Some CSI you are!"

"Tell me, then."

"I am planning to degrade the Las Vegas Crime Lab by killing one of the CSIs and watching as they sadly can't solve the case. Then, my crew will step in and solve it with absolute ease."

"Aha!" said Roger, pointing at David with his free hand. "Now who's the idiot, telling their plan out loud?"

Greg was compelled to laugh at this conversation. They were supposed to be trying to kill him, but they were arguing like siblings. In fact, thought Greg, if he wasn't mistaken, they _were_ siblings. But they were acting like twelve years old and wanted the last piece of birthday cake.

"Oh, shut _up_ for once!" said David, starting up a third cigarette and tossing down the old one. "You always have to have the last word."

There was a period of silence. It was rather awkward, standing here. If only Roger would lower his gun for a second...but this guy seemed to have him covered even when he was embarrassed.

"So..." said Greg slowly. "...wouldn't you go to jail once your team solves my murder?" It put a lump in his throat to say the words "my murder". It made it seem like he was dead already. He practically was – there was no means of escape.

"Who says _I'm _going to kill you?" asked David. "Not a very observant rookie, are you? You wouldn't have made it three days at my vicinity."

"Wait, you're not going to kill him?" asked Roger, who clearly knew no more than Greg did. "Just how many people are you dragging into..." His words slowed and he did not finish his sentence. As David took a another calm puff of nicotine and tobacco, he began stuttering. "N-no. You're not expecting _me_ to take the fall for this?" Greg couldn't tell, but was sure David gave him a "no shit" look. "I have no means for killing this kid! What good is your money if I'm stuck sitting in jail for twenty-five years!" And to the relief of the hostage, with these last words, Roger tossed his gun into the dirt by Greg's feet.

If he had been thinking, he would have grabbed the weapon off the ground. But all he wanted to do was go home and go to bed. He made a break for it, running towards the dark road. He splashed through numerous puddles, but he was as soaked as he was ever going to get, and a few more splashes made no difference. As he reached the pavement, he slowed to a regular pace, smiling at his kidnappers' stupidity. Just as the thought of being back at the lab popped into his head, he came crashing down, having tripped over a stone.

"Ow..." he said, lifting his head a few inches off the ground. "That was stupid."

_Bang! _A gunshot echoed across the empty road. Greg flattened himself against the pavement. He lay still for a few minutes, and then lifted his torso off the ground, sitting on his knees and putting his hands to his head. That was close.

Greg gasped as a sudden cold hand grabbed the back of his shirt, pulled him to his feet, and dragged him into the abyss. He was tugged back to the cars, where Roger stood open-mouthed in the same exact spot he was in when Greg had run away. David let go of Greg's collar, but with such force that he stumbled forward a few inches before Dave took his place besides his own car.

Then, with a shock, he pulled out a second pistol and held one at Greg and the other at Roger. Holding the two weapons out, David looked like a cowboy from an old western movie.

"Look," said David, temporarily withdrawing his weapon from Greg to push his glasses further up the bridge of his nose, "I'm tired of this. The job should be done by now, but it's not, is it, Roger?"

Roger looked desperately, wide-eyed, at Greg. The look in his face made Greg almost ready to believe he was truly sorry for what he had put him through. But then David threw one of the guns at Roger and he caught it.

"So, here's how it goes," David said. "You shoot him, or I shoot you. Get it?"

The sympathy left Roger's eyes as he turned on Greg. "I'm sorry, Greggo," he said, but he was smiling. "We had our fun. But this is the way it has to be, I guess."


	7. The Same Old Fears

"**S**tep on it, Rick, we don't have much time!" called Sara from the back seat. She huddled up. It was getting colder, and she hadn't brought a sweater – all she had on her shoulders was a blue tank top. It had been comfortable when it was 104° in Vegas, but now she wished she had worn something warmer.

Nick also shivered in the front seat, even though he was wearing his CSI jacket. He fiddled with a few buttons by the dashboard until the heat came up. "If only it was this temperature in the Lab," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Quite chilly by Carson, ain't it?"

Warrick, who was driving, thanked Nick for the heat and pulled onto the interstate as Sara reached under the seat andput ontheCSI jacket she found there, sighing in comfort.Within a minute, he was forced to turn on the windshield wipers as rain splattered down on them. The creaking gave Sara the chills. She looked out the window, and read a sign in the beam of the headlights: _Interstate 15._

"Rick..." said Sara cautiously, "...are you sure you know where you're going?" Being from San Francisco originally, Sara had not been to Carson City enough times to get there without looking up directions online or reading a map. But she was pretty sure that the I15 did not lead in the direction they wanted to go.

"Of course I do," Warrick answered, but he seemed unsure. "I have relatives in Carson City and I always take this road."

"But the exit you wanted to take off the highway was closed, remember?" she persisted. "And then you had to take all those back streets. I think you're lost."

"I am not lost!" said Warrick. "I know where we are."

Sara folded her arms and returned to staring out the window. After a few minutes without anyone talking, she broke the silence again. "Pull over. You don't know where we're going. Ask for directions or let me drive."

"No way, that would just waste time."

She rolled her eyes. They were wasting a lot of time anyway. This place was more deserted than a rat-infested restaurant. Who was she kidding? There was no one to ask. She would just have to sit back and see where they ended up.

Eyes watering in fear, Greg fell to his knees. He had trusted Roger when he had first met him, even respected him for who he was. And it was now because of that he was going to die. All the stupid things he had done that let up to this moment flashed before his eyes. He trusted a compete stranger. He didn't call Grissom. He wasted his time trying to hotwire a car instead of running away. He didn't pick up the gun when it was lying inches from his shoe. And when he did manage to run away, he tripped and fell, insuring his doom. He closed his eyes, letting the tears flow, waiting for the blow to come.

He wasn't dead. He opened his eyes. Roger was hesitant to pull the trigger. He stood there, hand outstretched, still as a tree. A few minutes ago, he seemed so willing and eager just to shoot someone. It seemed he just talked big and was unable to do anything of the sort.

"Well?" said David, waving his pistol at his brother threateningly. "Haven't you killed anyone before? It's quite easy, you know..."

"I've only shot at criminals and armed suspects," he answered, voice shaking. "None this young. He's so small, David. He reminds me of me when I was a CSI trainee."

Greg was getting tired of the suspense. _Either kill me or not! Don't drag on, _he thought.

Roger fell to his knees along with Greg. "I can't kill a kid!" he called, once again throwing his gun aside.

"Coward!" David yelled, running forward and pulling Roger to his feet. "Fine, I'll do it myself, if you're going to be such an idiot." He lifted his head – but it was too late. This time, Greg had grabbed the gun and grasped it in both hands, holding it steady towards the two captors huddled together.

"Well, lads," he said, trying to calm himself as he spoke. "I-I had fun. So, I'm sorry I can't stay." With a deep breath and a sharp, quick turn, he ran off down the road as far as humanly possible.

"Pull over!" Sara said again. They were completely lost. "Let me or Nick drive!"

"No."

"Pull over, quick," said Nick. "I don't feel so good."

"Oh, Niiick!" said Sara in desperation. "We're on a rescue mission here! What could possibly be the matter? Can't you just throw up in a bag?"

"_What?_" said Warrick. "Not on the new carpeting!" The car came to a screeching halt, and Nick fell out of the car and doubled over. "Nick, man, why didn't you tell me you get carsick?"

"I - don't - get- carsick," Nick gasped. "It must have been something I ate." He could not speak again for a few minutes. He then added, "...I had a drink at the casino. Call Gris, this could be a major breakthrough in his case!"

"Nick, I don't think you're supposed to buy drink from the crime scene," said Warrick, taking out his phone. "But I'll call him anyway. See the hell he gives you."

Sara walked out of the car and paced up and down the road. They were wasting so much time. She couldn't believe they would act so childish in such a drastic situation. She looked out for cars that might come down the road. But no one came. Then, she paused. She squinted, trying to make out some dark shapes on the side of the road. They were cars - two cars. She looked back at the boys - they were still arguing about something; maybe Nick wanted to drive the rest of the way. She rolled her eyes and strolled off towards the cars. _Men never ask for directions,_ she thought, _so I'll have to do it myself._

"Dammit!" said David, smacking the back of Roger's head. "You let him get away!"

"I know, I know," said Roger, biting his nails in nerves. "He took my gun, too. I liked that gun."

"I'm lucky it was yours and not mine," muttered David. "Got your fingerprints all over..."

David looked up at the road as a car came down it and pulled over. Two figures came out of the front seat and ran over to the bushes. A third came out of the back. The third figure walked up and down the road, then stopped, and made its way slowly towards them.

"Oh, no," said David, "it's a cop, I bet! Get back, they'll recognize you." He pushed Roger back into the shadows so that he bumped into one of the cars.

The person drew nearer and David saw she was a young woman with dark hair and a tank top. "Hello," she said. "I'm Sara Sidle from the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I was wondering if you could give me directions to Carson City."

David raised his eyebrows. Looking back at Roger, they exchanged a smile.

"Yes, of course," he said. "What a coincidence. We were just headed to Carson City."


	8. Exposed in the Light

**G**reg stopped halfway down the deserted highway, breathing hard. He had no idea where he was going or where he was. His life may have been spared for the moment being, but if he didn't find someway home soon, he was a goner anyway - it didn't matter that he'd lost David and Roger, for they were definitely not tagging along behind him. He looked down at the gun in his hand, and pocketed it. He had to preserve the fingerprints on it, even if his were overlapping them. If he had learned anything tonight, it was to stick to your job - and DNA was his current career.

Wiping away sweat from hid brow, he gazed across the wet road. It had finally stopped raining. Perhaps he had gotten far enough back towards Las Vegas that the weather was starting to turn for the better. He looked back over his shoulder, calm and confident. It wasn't impossible to hitchhike a ride back home - a car has passed him not 30 minutes ago. Had he not been running for his life, he would have hitched a ride.

"...so the both of you are brothers headed to Carson City?" asked Sara, squinting in the darkness. She could only tell that there were two of them, not their gender, age, or even a vague idea of what they looked like.

"Yep," said David, stepping backwards to hide Roger, who was pressed up against the car door. "Would you like a ride, Miss Sidle? It wouldn't be much trouble for us."

"No, no, I just need to look at a map. Do you have one?"

David looked scornfully at her. She was ruining his plans, just like her coworker. All the luck for a CSI to come when the other had run away...it would be just plain stupid to let them _both_ get away. He had to do some quick thinking. If she didn't want to get in the car, he'd have to get her in the car himself. He knew she was armed and his brother's firearm was no longer available, so it would be no use to draw a weapon upon her, for it would surely mean his untimely defeat. He would have to trick her..somehow.

"Yeah, it's in my car. Let me show you the way..." He made his way towards Roger's vehicle, which was closer to the road.

"On second thought," said Sara. She had just taken a small flashlight out of a pocket and used it to look around the enclosement. "If you're brothers, why do you have two cars here?" She brought the flashlight around to David's face as he stepped in front of Roger again and the light reflected off his glasses.

He stammered, thinking about what to do and what to say. If he wasn't careful, he could lose his second chance. "W-we, uh, c-come from different places. Yeah. You know...we ..erm..wanted to meet up. See, he lives in, uh, V-Vegas, and I'm from...Las Angeles."

Sara raised an eyebrow. He could tell she wasn't really buying this but was too confused to try and figure out otherwise. "So...you're just going to leave one of these cars here and carry on together in one car? Or are you meeting here for a reason?"

David smiled nervously and wiped away sweat. She was tough. It felt like he was already in the interrogation room. He half wondered if she had figured him out long ago and was just playing him.

"Move it, dammit," gasped Roger, still huddled against the car. "I can't breathe here."

"So, um, would you like me to show you the map?" asked David, ignoring the complaints of discomfort behind him. "Just..this car, here."

He was relieved when she obliged, and walked slowly towards Roger's car, before turning quickly. David stepped in front of his brother a third time. "Where _is_ your brother?" She ran the small flashlight up and down him like a spotlight before noticing a second pair of shoes by the pavement. "What's he doing there? Shouldn't you be giving him some room for breathing, maybe?"

"Well...see..." said David, but he was spared of thinking up a phony explanation by a call from the road.

"Sara!" came Warrick's voice. "Let's go, come on. We have to go find Greg, there's no more time to spare here!"

Sara turned. Warrick was right, they had to go before it was too late. She made her way back towards her friends.

"No, wait!" thought David desperately. Dammit! Now they'd lost their chance. The only good news was the wild goose chase they were on. They weren't going to find Greg. In fact, if they were lucky, the little weasel would be dead from dehydration before they found him, especially if they weren't going to get to Carson City and find out he wasn't there until too late. Even so...it would have been great to get the job done.

A sudden harsh, hacking sound came from behind him. David turned to find Roger on the ground, leaning over and coughing his lungs out. Sara turned to see what was going on and saw him doubled over like that. She dropped her flashlight and ran to the side of the coughing victim. "Are you alright?" she asked, falling to her knees and putting an arm around him as Roger began wheezing. She turned to David. "What's wrong with him?"

"I - I have no idea!" he answered honestly. "It sounds like he has asthma or something."

Sara pulled out he cell phone and called 911. "We need an ambulance on the side of the I15, bad asthma attack. How long will that be?" Roger picked his head up slightly and gasped, "Can you take me to the hospital..please?"

Sara abandoned the call and put away her phone. "Where's the hospital?" She demanded, grabbing the keys from David's hand. She opened the driver's side door and got in the front. David brought his coughing brother into the back and sat next to him, holding him steady as he let out violent gasps and shuddered.

"There's one right off the I15," said David. "Just a few miles from here."

"Alright." Sara turned the key and the engine started. As she pulled on the road, she rolled down the window and shouted into the night "Nick! Warrick! I'm going to the hospital! Good luck finding Greg!" With that, she sped away into the unknown, relying on the strangers in the backseat to give her directions.

A few minutes passed and Sara kept driving intently. In the back seat, David leaned over to his brother. "Bloody brilliant," he whispered, and they exchanged a smile.


	9. Don't Be Afraid to Care

_Before I start the chapter, I have something to address. A reviewer who has been thinking very logically about this fanfiction has posed an interesting question, and I would like to answer it. _

_The Question:_** _" Didn't Sara clearly see Roger's face on both the video and the database?  
Since she was thinking about finding Greg, wouldn't it follow that she would recognize his kidnapper and not get into a car with him?_**_"_

_The Answer: I tried to put in some details to make the answer to this more clear, but apparently, it's not clear enough. So, I'll go over it._

_(a) Although Sara, along with Nick and Warrick, were looking hard at the security video, it is pixilated, and therefore hard to see detail. She says she recognized him in the database because of his "stupid haircut," because nothing else was clear enough. But she did have the database picture she printed out..._

_(b) David was blocking Roger from view._

_(c) By the time Sara was about to get a good look at Roger, she was called back to the road by Warrick. And once her attention was taken back by the brothers, she had dropped her flashlight in order to get over to the person who was having an "asthma attack." And now, the only view of him she had was in dark profile, as his head was close to and facing the ground. _

_(d) Sometimes, emotions mess with our own sense of logic, and other emotions. The desperation of finding Greg was overcome by the need to get this man to a hospital. Needing to leave a car for the others to go get Greg, she got into the car with two complete strangers._

_I hope this answered your question!_

**T**hey had just made it back to the car when Sara pulled out in a car out of nowhere and she shouted something about going to a hospital. Nick thought this strange - where had that care come from and why had she gone to a hospital? Being a CSI three, he put two and two together; there must be an emergency...someone had probably pulled over on the road in need of aid and Sara was taking their car to the emergency room..because Nick and Warrick needed this car to find Greg. Remembering this, he snapped out of deep thought.

"Come on, Warrick, let's go, there's no time to lose!"

But Warrick stared after the car that had just left. Nick went up to him and tugged on his sleeve. "C'mon, man. Let her go, she knows what she's doing. It's an emergency. Now _we_ gotta go get our little buddy."

Warrick still didn't budge. He lifted a finger and pointed into the abyss. "That car," he said, "that was a Nissan Altima."

"Your point?" said Nick cluelessly, still yanking at Warrick's sleeve. What was _with_ this guy? A few minutes ago, he was yelling for Sara to get in the car, and now he was struck still in the middle of nowhere. "This is no time to be gawking after a car just because it has hot taillights. We're on an active case, here!"

"This is important!" said Warrick, shrugging Nick off his arm. "Don't you remember our first clue?"

"Sure," said Nick. "The blurry picture on the security tape, later rendered pointless by the fingerprint on the -"

"You really don't pay attention," said Warrick. "That was _your_ first clue. Remember when Sara ran outside...Catherine said the word 'car'? Come on, how dense are you!" Warrick knew he shouldn't be yelling and that Nick was smart, but just blinded by desperation. So, he decided just to tell the guy what he was talking about. In turn, Nick became angry as well.

"If that's the suspect's car, what are you waiting for?" Nick asked. "Call her!"

Warrick was smart enough to know there was no time to argue anymore. He took out his cell phone and called Sara on speed dial. Nick looked out to where the car had emerged from and saw a dark figure; a second car. He took out his mini maglight and approached it with caution. When it was clear no one was around, he ran the light over the car, staring at its interiors for clues. "Greg?" he whispered, looked over the backseat. But no one answered.

"Damn!" said Warrick, slapping down the cover of his phone. "She didn't answer! Nick, this is bad."

"If...that's the perp..." Nick thought out loud, "then...Greg should be with them!" He frowned. "But it's a sedan. If Greg was there, she would have noticed it before she drove away."

"Unless he's in the trunk," said Warrick miserably. "And if we don't do something fast, the same thing could happen to Sara." There was a pause.

"Go, go after them," said Nick, pointing back towards the car on the road. "We don't want to give up on hope, on either of them. I've got a crime scene here that might lead us to Greg, if he's not in the direction you're headed. So, go! Ride! Off with you! Take the car, and get out of my sight!"

Night was coming on fast, and the road was becoming darker. Sara flipped on the brights, and stared out on the road, wide-eyed, trying to ignore the barrel of a gun on the back of her neck. The men in the backseat had said nothing, but she knew it was a gun. Nothing else would be so cold.

"What is it that you want?" asked Sara. She had connected the dots, but still was not absolutely sure that these were Greg's kidnappers. "You're Roger, aren't you?"

Roger smiled, arms folded. "Wow, we don't give you Vegas CSIs enough credit at my lab. Congratulations, you found the culprit. Too bad it won't help you much anymore. Now, hand over your cell phone."

Sara slowed down so she could reach into her pocket and get her phone, just as it rang. She paused in handing it over her shoulder.

"Let it ring," said David. "Now, hand it over, or you'll be dead earlier than you planned."

"Don't give me that b.s.," said Sara. "You both know damn well that if you shoot me now, this car will go veering off the road, possible into a large canyon, where you will be killed upon impact." Nevertheless, she gave them the joyously buzzing phone.

"You've got a lot of nerve," said David. "Your friend didn't mouth off like that."

These were the words Sara was waiting to hear. "Where's Greg!" she demanded.

David smirked. "Ooh, I seem to have touched a nerve," he said mockingly. "Don't worry about the little blonde boy. He's just fine, riding in the back with the spare tire."

"That's a lie!" Sara yelled, wanting to believe her words, but completely unsure. "Stop telling me bullshit!" She blinked tears out of her eyes and they flickered back to the road.

David switched the gun from his right hand to his left. Making her think Greg was dead would definitely discoordinate her at least a little bit. And now their plan could not fail, combining Sara's dulling senses with how much more wrathful David was now that his first shot was a flop. Failure had made the usually merciful man unsympathetic and vengeful. He had no intention of letting her live.

Roger, on the other hand, had been relieved by Greg's getaway. Although he mocked and made fun of Sara's situation, he was sure that in the end, the death of the CSI would be blamed on him. He was long from forgetting that David threatened him with a gun not long ago, and without his own weapon, he felt like a prisoner as well. He thought back on when Sara first came into the scene...he had only been thinking of the money, and how his brother really wanted to get this done. David was protecting him as he was talking to Sara. He was touched by the situation, and helped him out in trapping Sara in a closed vehicle in the middle of nowhere. Now that he thought about it, had the deed been done already, David would probably have let Sara arrest him. He doubted whether his brother would ever protect him again.

The fighting was far from over. David had just settled back, hand outstretched, combing the hair out of his eyes, when Sara hit the breaks and the car stopped short. He stumbled forward, and grabbed Sara around the neck for support. "I told you to wear a seatbelt," said Roger in a parental way. "Then, you would have been fine."

"I _am_ fine," said David, out of breath and clutching Sara tightly. "What are you, my mother?" He took some time to breathe. "What the hell did you do that for? Try to throw me off? Well...that didn't work too well.."

"Stop being so arrogant," said Sara. " I wasn't trying anything. We almost hit a deer on the parkway."

David gasped. "Bloody vegetarian!" he yelled. "You should be worried about yourself, not a goddamn deer! Now, keep driving!"

"Okay, okay," said Sara, hitting the gas. "You really need to relax. Go get yourself a girlfriend."

"Excuse me?" said David, sitting back down and raising his eyebrows. "Are you calling me incapable of having a girlfriend? What makes you think I don't have one?"

"Well, you don't," said Roger, chiming in. "And it's kind of obvious. You yell a lot."

"I didn't ask you," said David. He gave Roger a cold look and then turned back to Sara. "Unless you were flirting with me to get out of your situation? I didn't think a CSI would do something like _that_ -"

"Don't flatter yourself," said Sara. "I wouldn't go out with_ you_ if your little friend there paid me."

The color left David's face. He scowled. "This isn't exactly the best time for you to be insulting me. Let me remind you that I can pull the trigger any time I want. And if you weren't so afraid that I might, you wouldn't be driving this car right now."

Sara fell silent. She did keep driving, not because she was afraid he could kill her in the car. But she knew that if she stopped driving, he could take her out and kill her somewhere else.

It was getting later and later, and Greg was growing weary. He couldn't see anything, and his maglight was still in Roger's car, under the seat. He trudged onward, following the railing back to the city roads. He sat down, hungry and lonely. Ugh. "Wish I had my cellphone," he said. "I could order out. Get a pizza delivered in the middle of the highway."

His breath was short. He guessed that he was dehydrated, and despite how wet the ground was, he couldn't exactly lick the pavement to get a drink. "Need...sleep," he mumbled, and collapsed.


	10. Warm Thrill of Confusion

**P**hone on his ear, Nick sat on the side of the road waiting for someone to answer his call. He had searched the car and area around, bagged as much evidence, took as many photos as he could gather, and had still found no trace of Greg. This car was so clean he was sure it was pretty new; all he managed to get were some prints off the wheel and a few fragments of God-knows-what from the trunk and backseat. And now he was stuck in the middle of the highway. He hoped Warrick had not abandoned him in vain, and that he would be able to catch the perpetrators before they killed again - because the doubt in his mind that Greg was dead was dimming by the minute.

At long last someone picked up. "Finally!" he said. It was Catherine. He thought for a second of what to tell her and she waited. Then he began, "Listen, I don't know how to tell you this..."

All the events that went on that day made Roger look bipolar. But he had no idea how he was supposed to act some of the time. It certainly wasn't appropriate to be smiling when there was a gun pointed at his face; yet the next moment he was smiling in triumph. All these emotions were making him feel just one - stupid. "What a day," he sighed and stretched out in the back, watching his brother to see if he was still angry from Sara's insults. David was showing no emotion, but his trigger finger was twitching and he was drumming his fingers on his lap; in short, he looked a little bit nervous.

"Pull over, girly," he ordered suddenly, and the car was brought to the side of the road. "Here, Roger, you take over." He handed his brother the gun. Roger stared down at it for a second and then looked up for an explanation. But David has walked off. He looked out at the empty landscape and lit up a cigarette.

Roger walked over to Sara's door and knocked on it. What luck that David needed to stop for a smoke; this was the opportune moment he needed. "Hey," he said, "get out of the car. I need to talk to you."

"Ah, Nick," muttered Catherine to herself. "Why does he make me the taxi? Do I look like I have the time to pick him up at random intervals?" She pulled onto the highway, searching left and right for Nick - until something else was caught in her headlights.

There was something large lying across the road, bigger than a deer and definitely less furry. Catherine pulled her head out the window to get a better view. It was wearing a t-shirt and a pair of jeans: a person. She ran out of the car at once, taking out her cellphone in case she needed an ambulance...or the coroner. As she kneeled down next to the body, she was relieved to see that there was no blood. She placed her hand past the familiar spiky hair on the neck to check a pulse...yes, there was one, but it was weak.

"Send an ambulance to the I15, we're on the side of the road..." she trailed off as she turned the body over and saw the boy's face. "...nevermind," she added, smiling and getting some water from her car.

Greg opened his eyes as the water trickled down his throat. He sat up after drinking a bottle or two. "Thanks, Cath," he said. "Can we get a pizza now?"

"Later," Catherine answered, but she looked at him puzzled and concerned. She put her hands on his shoulders. "Greg, tell me what happened."

"So _why_ are you doing this?" Sara asked, sitting down on the railing between the highway and the desert land behind her. Roger was beside her, but he was not threatening her in any way. The firearm was held to the ground.

"I'm going to jail either way," he answered. "I mean, I did kidnap someone. But I know that David wants you dead. And ultimately, you're death is gonna be by my hands forcefully, or I'm gonna be blamed for it anyway. I don't want to kill anyone; I just wanted some cash."

Sara sniffed. "So it's just because you don't want to do jail time? And you think I'll get you off if you rescue me?"

"No, not at all!" He shook his head. "You have me all wrong..."

"If you knew this all along, that I was going to be killed, why did you trick me into getting into the car with you!" Sara fumed.

"I don't know!" Roger said at last. "I don't know. Maybe I just wanted to help my brother, maybe I was afraid he would kill me, too. I don't know. But it's not like I'll figure out the reason now. So whether you help me or not should have nothing to do with what I did before." He turned his back on her and walked a few feet up the road before turning around.

"So...so do you have a plan on how we're supposed to carry this out?" Sara asked, trying to break the awkward silence.

"Um...no," admitted Roger.

Sara sighed. "I'm sure I can figure out something," she said, folding her arms.

"So-so you're obliging?" Roger said, smiling.

"Like I have a choice," said Sara, noting the gun in his hand. "Only...one more question."

Roger looked up. "Yeah?"

"Give me one good reason," she sighed, "why the hell I should trust you."

"Was this the man who kidnaped you?" asked Nick, showing the picture of Roger Mason they printed out.

Greg looked away. "I told you," he said, "he didn't kidnap me. I went with him of my own free will. He just took me...somewhere else than where I thought. It was my own fault. I'm sorry."

"Just answer the question, Greg," said Catherine desperately. This wasn't working out so well. She didn't understand Greg's story in the slightest, but giving him a day to rest up before he told it might give the kidnappers enough time to get away with Sara, even if Warrick was chasing them.

"Yes," said Greg. "That's Roger. He's the good one."

"There is no good one, dammit!" said Nick, who was also frustrated. "They're both guilty. With your help, Greg, they're both going to be caught and they're both going to jail."

"No, Nick," said Greg. "Roger didn't try to kill me. He should get less of a sentence than David. David tried to get Roger to kill me."

Nick slapped his forehead and paced back and forth in Greg's office. "In your story," he said slowly, trying to make a point, "you said that Mason, using a fake CSI ID, told you that he could get you a job as a CSI in Carson City. He then drove you to a secluded part of the I15 and took you out of the car by force. Then, he was told to kill you, but you ran away. When you were brought back, he turned his gun on you, correct?"

"Very good, Nick. I didn't think you were actually paying attention."

Nick let the insult slip by. "So, he lied to you, kidnaped you, and tried to kill you_ twice_! What exactly makes this guy good?"

"You don't understand," said Greg. "Both times, he didn't end up doing it, and it wasn't his fault when he tried. He let me escape, and he risked his life the second time. Don't you get it yet? He _risked his life letting me escape! _He had a gun at his back, and he still let me go!"

"What was the name of the other man who was there, again?" asked Catherine, giving Nick a look to stop him from debating Greg any further on this issue. "This man who held Mason at gunpoint?"

"I told you, David," he answered. "I think he was Roger's brother."

"Don't assume that," said Nick. "There's no way we know that for sure."

Greg blinked. He was right. But...they _weren't_ brothers? How was that possible? They were acting so immature around each other, they just _had_ to be.

"Oh, wait!" Greg just remembered the evidence he was harboring in his pocket. He took out Roger's gun and put it on the table in front of him. "This should have both their prints on it. We should be able to find out his last name from here."


	11. Plans That Either Come to Naught

**R**oger was taken by surprise at Sara's question. He never thought she would ask that. After a moment, he answered simply. "...because I let Greg escape."

Sara was not expecting that. She was so sure that he would use an old cliche like "because I'm your only hope," or "what other choice do you have," that a direct answer left her speechless. All she could manage to say was "..I...you...what?"

"Roger, let's go!" called David, running back to the car. "I think we're being followed." He shot a look at Sara as though it were her fault. It probably was. "Get in the front to keep an eye on her." He said "her" like she wasn't there, or like she didn't matter at all. Sara was too keen on Roger's explanation to care.

He glanced quickly at her. "You heard me," he whispered before grabbing her by the arm and ordering at her "Let's go!"

Sara slid back into the still-warm front seat and became prisoner again as David took back the gun. But she wasn't as afraid this time; she knew it was foolish, but she trusted Roger and believed him when he said that Greg was still alive and had escaped from their clutches. Although he could easily be tricking her, there was a fear in his voice that told her he was sorry for his wrongdoings.

"Where are we going, anyway?" asked Roger, his voice quavering slightly.

David rubbed his eyes. "Shutup!" He snapped. "I haven't gotten that far yet. Planning takes time."

"I thought you already _had_ a plan," said Roger, careful not to let anyone cut him off. "You know - kill as CSI and then prove your Carson crew is better by solving the crime very easily..."

It was a good thing that David hadn't bothered to keep Sara covered yet, because Roger's words made him twitchy, and he pulled the trigger, firing a round through the windshield.

"Dave!" cried Roger. "My car!"

"Dammit, Roger!" David yelled back. "Would you mind _not_ revealing our plans!"

"Sorry, I thought it would help you think of what to do next."

Sara looked sideways at him. He said that in front of her on purpose. Was he hoping David would finish her off with that gun blast, or was he trying to tell her their plans?

The road was long, it seemed, but as long as she kept on driving, she was safe. Maybe the long ride would give her time to think of a scheme to get away.

"David, is there any water back there? I really need a drink," Roger said out of the blue.

"Yeah, just a bit," said David, handing over a half-full bottle of water up to the front. Roger drank it quickly, and Sara could tell that he was forcing it down. What in the world was he doing? Was he planning to try and knock David out with his empty water bottle? No...he threw that out the window when he was finished. So what _was_ his agenda?

"Got any more?" He asked. "I'm really thirsty."

"No," said David, looking around the backseat. "I see some tissues, paper towels, gum wrappers, a broken umbrella, melted candy bar...God, Roger, you should be raising pigs back here! Here, have some of my canteen. But don't drink it all." David handed over a small metal flask that was definitely filled with some sort of alcohol. Roger gave it back.

"How the hell do ya expect me to drive back when the task's complete if I'm drunk off my ass? I have a low alcohol tolerance, ya know!" Sara went pale. He was talking about driving back when they were done killing her. She slowed down the car. Maybe the person who was following them could catch up if she drove only 20 miles an hour.

David rolled his eyes. "What the hell do you want me to do, stop by a water fountain? Can't you wait until we get there?"

Roger shook his head. "No, I really need something now. I think I have some water in the trunk. Can you get it?"

Sara raised her eyebrows. "_Oh, I get it,"_ she thought, and smiled.

David looked at his brother suspiciously. "Why me?"

"Well...why not?" said Roger. "I can't get it, cos I don't trust you alone with the gun in my car. That itchy trigger finger of yours - you could really put a hole through it, Dave, and I just got it." Sara had to hand it to him - he was a really fast thinker.

David frowned. "You don't trust _me?_ Come on, I'm your brother. Your own flesh and blood! We have the same parents! What's not to trust about me?"

"You don't seem to trust me," said Roger. "Acting all suspicious on me and the like."

"Fine." Then, David smiled maliciously. "I know," he said. "If you don't trust me in the car alone with the gun...how about if Sara gets the water?"

Roger turned quickly. Sara thought _"Oh, shit!"_ But David continued to smile his evil smile. "How about it?" Roger repeated. "Um..that's fine. But what if she runs away?"

"She won't run away, you twit," said David, smacking Roger's head with a folded map, "because I'm going to be outside making sure she _doesn't_. And you can just stay here in the car sitting on your lazy ass. Pull over."

Again, Sara was pulled from her seat and brought outside into the cold. David pushed her towards the trunk of the car. Roger got out on the other side and watched over. His original plan was ruined, but he could still make up for it somehow.

"What are you doing?" asked David.

"Getting some fresh air," he answered. He looked around, trying to act casual. "I think it's in the back somewhere. You should reach in all the way there..."

Sara looked at him. He didn't have the best escape plans. She knew that he was hoping if she leaned in far enough, she'd fall in the trunk and he'd drive off, leaving David behind. But that wasn't going to happen. She looked at him and shook her head. "No, it's in the corner, here." She reached into a corner. But there wasn't any water there. The trunk was such a mess it was hard to believe he just got the car. She continued her search for the water.

The CSI database had finally figured out whose fingerprints were on the gun besides Roger's. Catherine pressed the "print" button, and shook her head in shame.

"It's a damn shame," said Catherine. She clicked her tongue. "He was a good CSI. Intelligent, a supervisor of his shift, and not as old as Grissom. Hm." She continued to read off the paper. "Well, you were right, Greggo, they are brothers. David Mason is the elder, but they're both promising criminalists. Too bad they're both going to jail."

"Both going to jail?" Greg had forgotten all the fear he felt when he was with Roger Mason alone in the car. "But...but..."

"Greg, we can't make an exception," said Nick. "We'll be sending out the cops now. Once we figure out where Warrick is on the road, we can get Sara back!"

Greg smiled about getting Sara back, but he still felt it was wrong to let Roger be persecuted. He continued to protest until Nick couldn't take it anymore.

"Listen to me, Greg," he said, "I know you think he's good because he helped you...a little. But if he's so good, how come he's now with a different hostage? He kidnaped someone else! Someone you _care_ about. Tell me, if he's so good, why hasn't he returned Sara to us?"

Greg mumbled a response. But he was discouraged by this. Was it really Roger's doing that Sara was in trouble? If so...he could never forgive him. Let the bastard rot in jail...he should suffer for the endangering of Sara's life.

Catherine attempted to contact Warrick. She was annoyed with Nick for not following them himself, because she knew Warrick was terrible at directions. "Please tell me you've found them," she said as soon as he picked up the phone. "Please."

"Oh, I've found them alright," he said. "And they've stopped for some reason. I can see the three of them. Sara's still alive and moving."

"Great," said Catherine. Then, she said with anxiety, "Can you tell me where you are?"

"Send a bunch of police down the I15 until they see my car," said Warrick. "I'm going to try to get Sara back _now_!"

Roger had to think of a new plan before Sara actually found the water. But with David on to him, it was hard to do anything. Unless...yes. If he had to, he would go to the extremes. He shivered. "It's really cold. Do you think I can borrow your coat, Sara?" he asked.

Sara was confused by this. Was this part of his new escape strategy? She doubted it. "No," she said firmly. That was one thing she wouldn't give up. She needed that coat.

David was not pleased by this statement. "Give him the coat," he said threateningly.

Sara was frantic. She had no choice but to give up the coat, or she'd be giving up her life. However, she might be doing that anyway. Since there was more of a chance of living without her jacket, she handed it over to Roger, who's shivering was so obviously an act, David must have been nearly blinded by the darkness not to see through it.

A sudden beam of light cut the black abyss. A car had come! "Shit!" David cried. "They caught up with us!"

"Put your hands on your head and get down!" called a familiar voice. Sara squinted through the headlights and saw Warrick Brown, alone, pointing his weapon at David.

With great force and speed, David grabbed Sara around the neck and held the gun against her head. Sara's eyes widened with fear. She started to yell, until David covered her mouth with his free hand. Warrick became angry and David was pleased. "Drop your weapon, or I'll shoot the girl," he called.

"Don't be stupid, Mason," said Warrick, attempting to reason with him. "I've got backup coming. There'll be a whole lot of cops here in a few moments."

"A few moments should give me plenty of time to kill her," he shot back. "Until they come, I could just pull the trigger at any time...unless you drop your weapon."

Warrick still held strong to his gun. David smiled and cocked the gun, ready to fire. Sara whimpered. Roger stood dumbstruck. "It's not me killing her, it's you!" David chanted. "Drop your weapon!"

What other choice did he have? Warrick slowly bent down and placed his gun on the ground. He stood up, his arms raised in surrender. "They're going to come any time soon, anyway," said Warrick. "You're going to get arrested no matter what."

"I have until then," said David. "Kick your gun off the cliff. Go on."

"What?" said Warrick. That was an odd request. He would have though Mason wanted to take his gun to use it or something. Not kick it off the cliff. "Why?"

"Because," he said, "once the cops come, I can have two hostages at my disposal. Think I want you to be near a weapon? Now kick it off the cliff."

Warrick did, and he watched as his gun fell helplessly down the steep ridge. The cops had better come soon...he hoped they weren't as lost as he was.

Now was the time. David was motioning for Warrick to come over. Roger reached into the jacket's pocket and pulled out Sara's gun. Aiming it right at his brother's head, he said "Drop _your_ weapon."


	12. Where Have You Been?

**W**ater came down from the sky in a light drizzle. Sara felt her heart drop. Time seemed to stand still. Nobody moved: Warrick had his hands still raised by his car; David held his gun to Sara; Sara, still in a headlock and tried to catch her breath; and Roger stood firm, both of his hands trying to steady the weapon.

"Drop it, fool," sneered David, giving a small but nervous laugh. "Who do you think you're kidding?"

"I'm not kidding," said Roger. "Let the girl go."

"You're not scaring me, Roger," David scoffed. "You didn't have the balls to kill that Greg kid, you didn't have the balls to kill Sara, and you don't have the balls to kill me."

Roger stepped closer and whispered, "You willing to take that risk?"

The look in his eyes discouraged David's jeers. He had never seen that look in him before - it was maddening determination: the look of a killer. David silently opened his hand and let the gun drop to the pavement. He released Sara from the death hold. As soon as she was free, Sara doubled back and immediately attempted to punch her captor, but Roger shot her warning look.

"Sara, you stay out of this!" he said threateningly. "This is between me and him!"

She went over to where Warrick stood, watching in horror. What exactly was he planning to do with her gun? She never thought he'd attempt to use it; she was under the impression that he was only trying to free her. But it seemed his anger got the best of him. Warrick phoned the police captain, Jim Brass. "Get out here now!" He shouted. "Like, right now! We have a showdown here!"

David put his hands out in mockery of his brother. "It seems we are at an impasse," he smiled. "I don't have a gun, and you won't use yours. Just put it down, we'll go, and I'm sure over time I will forget this idiocracy -"

"Shutup!" Roger cried. "You've always treated me like shit! I don't want to hear what you have to say! I just want you out of my life!"

"Well, if you kill me, you're going to jail," said David, who was starting to look less and less confident. "You'll be treated like shit there too! Because that's what you deserve! Look at you! You kidnaped 2 CSIs, but let them _both_ get away! You're no good for anything! You suck at being the good guy and you suck at being the bad guy! Now put down the gun, you irritating moron. You're best off the way you are now."

"You're wrong! Stop it!" Roger fired a warning shot that whizzed past David's ear. He looked star-struck and was now positively unnerved. Roger cried out, "It's all _your_ fault!"

David took a step back. "W-wait," he pleaded, "I'm your brother. Remember?"

"You're no brother of mine!" He held the gun steady. "No more slander. No more lies. No more David Mason!"

"Roger, no!" Sara cried, running forward to push the gun out of his hands and stop him from committing another heinous act. But Warrick held her back just in time. Roger pulled the trigger. David fell back onto the hard ground, and did not move.

A sudden call rang out. "Police! Drop your weapon and put your hands on your head!"

Sara and Warrick turned around and saw 5 or 6 patrol cars with at least 20 people standing behind them, firearms all aimed in the same direction, towards the man with the gun.

Roger gasped, his eyes darting from the smoking barrel to his fallen brother. He whimpered, and lowered the weapon. A tall cop followed closely by Nick jumped into the scene at once. The cop grabbed Roger's arms and cuffed him as he continued to stare open-mouthed and wide-eyed at the body on the ground. Nick walked over to check David's wound.

"Sara, you alright?" asked Warrick, putting his jacket across her shoulders.

"Yeah, yeah," she said, trailing off and not paying attention to him. She was busy watching the cop struggle to get Roger into the squad car as he tried to get over to help his kinsman. Warrick went over to one of the officers to get her a cup of coffee when she ran off to the struggling man. "Wait, what are you doing?" she asked the cop who was using all his strength to stop Roger from lunging forward.

"What does it _look like_ I'm doing?" he answered, pushing down on Roger's head until he could fit him into the car. He slammed the door shut with his foot and wiped his forehead. "You'd best stand back, Miss Sidle. You've been through a lot today, and this man could be dangerous."

Sara raised her eyebrows. "Dangerous? Him?" The cop watched her tiredly. "He's not dangerous, Tom, he's just..." When she couldn't think of the right word to describe him, she started over. "He may have been responsible for this whole mess, but he helped me and Greg escape. And he saved my life."

Tom seemed uninterested in the dilemma. "Listen, Miss Sidle, and I told your friend Greg the same thing before I left. I'm just following standard arrest procedure. I can't just let this man roam free on your word alone. If ya got an argument, don't take it up with me, take it up with the county. I especially can't let him go because you, me, and a score of county law enforcers just witnessed him murder our number one suspect -"

"Hey, this guy's still breathing!" Nick called. "And - bleeding - argh-!" He stood up to get away from the blossoming bullet hole, but not quick enough, David's blood stained his CSI vest and dripped from his hands, forming small, red puddles on the already wet ground. "Oh, God," he mumbled, taking a look at his crimson hands and coming close to being sick. "Can I get some help here!"

Brass ran over to help with the young and twitchy coroner, David Berman. The coroner David lifted the criminal David onto a gurney and strapped him down. He took out his emergency kit and tried to remove the bullet as they wheeled him down to his van and got into the back.

"Hospital's just down the I15, on the left," Sara said, remembering the first thing David Mason told her when she first got into the Nissan Altima. It seemed now like it was hours and hours ago.

"Thanks," said David Berman. "See ya around, Sara." He signaled to the driver to take off. Sara though how ironic it would be if David the criminal was lying about where the emergency room was - that lie could cost him his life.

"Right then," said Tom, leaning against his car. "_Attempted_ murder."

Sara opened her mouth to say something, but Warrick took her by the shoulders. "Come on," he said. "We have to get back. I'm sure a little spiky-headed someone would like to see you." As she was dragged away towards Warrick's car, she gazed through the patrol car window at Roger. She saw his glossy tear-stained eyes as Warrick said, "It's okay, Sara. The nightmare's over." Yes, it was over thanks to that would-be murderer sitting with the handcuffs on his wrists. Sure, it was his doing that the CSIs of the Las Vegas Crime Lab endured hours upon hours of terror, but he righted his wrongs. The contemplation of Roger's guilt was enough to drive any CSI up the wall. She tried to stop thinking about it, but that was impossible. By the time she made a decision, they were already heading back to Las Vegas. She turned to the driver.

"Warrick," she said, "I'm going to testify at Roger Mason's trial."

"That's great!" He said. "I'm glad to see you're ready to face him and see he gets what he deserves."

She shook her head sadly. "No. I'm going to testify on his behalf."


	13. Leave Me Alone

**Chapter Thirteen Leave Me Alone**

**E**scorted by Tom and Captain Brass, the two victims made their way to the chamber of one Roger Mason. In the cell next to him, David Mason sat on a bench with cracked glasses and a heavily bandaged abdomen. It turned out that the bullet had missed all vital organs but still embedded itself to the left of his rib cage. After it was removed, he was stitched up, bandaged, and sent into Vegas Crime Lab custody. He had been there for seven hours.

"Thank you. You can go now," said Sara.

"Are you sure?" asked Brass, raising his eyebrows. "They can be a tricky bunch. The guards tell me there's been resistance ever since the second one came here."

"I'm armed. If they get 'tricky,' I can defend myself and Greg. I'd prefer to talk to them without police escort." She did not look at him.

Brass shrugged and motioned for Tom to follow him out. Sara and Greg approached the bars. Roger came forward out of the darkness. He looked unrested, and Greg noticed that his unnaturally neat hair from yesterday was now as messy as his own. He averted his eyes as he spoke.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked, leaning his head on the bars. "David's been giving me enough hell without you two getting involved."

"I can _hear you_, you know, dumbass!" snapped David. He was more irritable than ever. He got up, ran over to the bars, and reached out. For a minute, Sara thought he was trying to attack them and searched her belt for her gun. But then, he shouted, "Hey, guard! Can I have my goddamn cigarettes? I paid for them, you know!"

"_Oh, that's right,"_ thought Greg. _"He kept smoking. If he's gone this long without a cigarette, he must be -"_

His thoughts were by a yell of rage after the guard shook his head and pointed to a "No Smoking" sign. This was followed by a loud "clang!" when David kicked the bars in a fury. Roger showed no reaction to either of these sounds. No one spoke for a few minutes. Then, Sara cleared her throat and pushed Greg forward to speak with his kidnaper.

"I want to say thanks," he said timidly. "For- for not killing me."

Roger sniggered. Greg didn't blame him; it was a ridiculous thing to say to anyone. "Hmph. It's not like I didn't _mean_ to kill you," he said, still looking at the ground but giving a small smile. "But David's right - I just don't have the guts."

"Keep saying things like that and you _will_ get persecuted for life," scorned Greg.

"We're here to tell you," Sara started, "that we're both willing to testify for you in court. So it's up to the judicial system to decide what you're guilty of and what you're not guilty of, and we'll put in our two cents to help you out. You didn't shoot Greg even when your life was in danger, and you really saved my ass. This is our gratitude."

Again, Roger did not react. But he looked up. "It's a classic case," he said. "Man shoots another, then revives him. Is the shooter guilty? Yes! Therefore, I am guilty."

"But this is different," said Greg. "First of all, the man who was shot is willing to forgive the shooter, and there was a third man..." He stopped, becoming confused.

"Okay, okay, the new story," said Sara., "goes as follows. Man A brings Man B to Man C. Man C then shoots Man B. Man A saves Man B, even though Man C threatened to kill Man A if he didn't let Man B die. Is Man A guilty? Nope."

Roger used his fingers to try and follow Sara's story. When he at last figured it out, it continued to protest. "But that's only half of the story. Man A did the same thing again, and then shot Man C. Man A is guilty as charged!"

A hush fell over the group. Sara stared at the sad man. What in the world was wrong with him? She would have expected him to jump for joy when they told him they'd help. She scowled.

"We're going to testify, stupid!" she said. "We're gonna help you!"

"I don't want your help or your pity," he said. "You shouldn't be here. No one should be here. If I was any good, both of you would be dead and the cell next to me would be empty. I don't -"

He would have continued had Greg not stepped in and smacked him across the face. He blinked. Greg looked back, his eyes surging with anger.

"So you wanted to kill me, did you?" He balled his hands into fists. "And Sara, too? That's a really bad lie. So just stop thinking about your ego. You're not no good - you're a CSI. Every day, people are counting on you, and you rarely disappoint them. Quit explaining what you don't want and start telling us what you _do_ want."

Roger put his hand to where Greg had hit him. It was stinging even after he finished his little speech. Roger was fuming. Sara looked worried, but Greg stood his ground. "You put me through hell," he continued. "I was scared to death. Even when I was away from you, I could have died from countless reasons on the road. And even I'm willing to try and save you. Stop your stupid mind games and take the damn offer."

"I'll tell you what I want," Roger hissed. "25 to life away from my abusive brother. That is why I tried to kill him and that is why I don't want you interfering with my persecution."

Sara leered at him. "I was wrong about you. You _are_ crazy. Come on, Greg." She tugged on his arm. "If he doesn't want our help, he's not going to get it. It's easier to say what a criminal he is in court, anyway. She dragged him away by the sleeve, and he was glad to go.

After they had gone, Roger put his hands on the bars and let out a sigh. It was going to be a tough 25 years, but it was worth it...or was it? He thought about the decision he made when something hit him on the shoulder.

"Ah!" he turned, startled, and saw David standing up with his arms folded and one shoe missing. He did not look content.

"So I'm 'abusive,' am I?" He said, taking off his other shoe and throwing it up in the air like a baseball. "Brat...I'll teach you the meaning of 'abusive!'"

Sara slammed the door to the holding chamber of the building and looked back at Greg. He was fixing his t-shirt, and looked nearly as annoyed as she felt.

"Okay, so he wants to go to jail," said Sara. "Happy to help with that." She went off, probably to go back to work. Greg watched after her. No matter how infuriated he was by Roger's arrogance, he couldn't help but feel that it was wrong to persecute him. Wouldn't it be considered a lie if he said he didn't want to assist him? He paced back and forth in the hallway, debating himself. That was when he heard the scream from the holding cells.


	14. The Trial, Part One: Have I Been Guilty ...

**Chapter Fourteen The Trial, Part One: Have I Been Guilty All This Time?**

"**A**ll rise for the honorable Judge Emily Saber!"

The courtroom stood as one at the bailiffs words. All eyes were on the door to the judge's chambers, and the eyes soon followed a tall woman with a lined face as she made her way tot eh center of the room where everyone could see her. She picked up her gavel and banged it twice, and everyone knew that was the notion to sit down.

Greg stared along the heads of the crowd as he sat back down. It was eerie that they all did the same thing at the same time. But soon, all of these eyes would be staring as one at him as he told over his story. His face felt flushed and this stupid tie was choking him. Sara sat next to him, looking her absolute best. Hers were two of the eyes eagerly anticipating the start of the trial. She squeezed his hand, and his face went even redder. He knew it wasn't a sign of affection: more one of anxiety.

"Not much longer now, Greg," she whispered, watching Judge Saber along with the rest of them. "Soon we'll see to it that bastard gets what he wants."

He closed his eyes, preferring not to think about it until the time came. But no time seemed to be passing. Nothing was happening - the room was still and silent. The reason for this soon became apparent. Judge Saber looked up at the defense side.

"Mr. Castor, where is your client?" she asked.

The heads of the crowd turned to see what she meant. The defense table had four chairs but only three occupants. Greg strained to see who was missing and noticed that it was Roger's brown head that was not there. The lawyer, Castor, shrugged.

"I...I don't know, Your Honor," he answered. "He should be here any time soon. Perhaps...something happened to him?"

There was muttering throughout the crowd. The noise did not fare well with Judge Saber. She banged her gavel again, and everyone fell silent. "Don't be ridiculous, Mr. Castor," she said. "I am certain he is fine. But I suggest you go and find him."

No sooner had the lawyer reached the door to the hall when it burst open, revealing two figures in the doorway. It was Roger, clad in the orange standard uniform, accompanied by Tom the cop. One look at his face made it seem as though Castor's words weren't far from the truth. Although he stood tall, around Roger's left eye was a livid purple bruise. Tom stood meekly by and tried to dab Roger's nose with a c rumpled white cloth. Roger shrugged him off with difficulty, as it seemed to cause him pain to move his shoulder. He walked into the room like he was visiting a girlfriend's house. As Tom followed him, Greg looked over and saw that the cloth clutched in his hand was a bloody tissue. He looked back at Roger, who was definitely showing signs of a recent nosebleed.

"Sorry that we're late, Judge Saber," said Tom, throwing his hand's contents into the trash. "I was tending to him. It took at least 20 Band-Aids to do-up just the wounds on his back. Judge, I'm not one to interfere, but perhaps this trial can be postponed until Mr. Mason has received proper medical -"

"I'm fine," said Roger softly, and he sat down next to his court-appointed lawyer.

"If you insist, Mr. Mason," said Judge Saber. She cleared her throat and began. "The case of The City of Las Vegas verses David and Roger Mason has begun. Defense attorneys Geoffrey Castor and Harry Nadar. Prosecutor Adam Kampbell..."

Greg was only half-listening. How could the judge possibly continue the case with one of the defendants in such horrid condition? He was sure that these wounds and the hair-raising scream a week back were connected. David was abusing Roger even in the cells. Why hadn't the guards done anything to prevent this? He stared back at that black eye and felt his own eyes watering in sympathy. So distracted was he that he didn't hear his name being called.

"We call to the stand the first witness and victim, Mr. Gregory Sanders," called one of the lawyers.

Sara poked Greg's shoulder. He turned, and she pointed to the stand. Then, she noticed his tears. "Don't worry," she whispered. "Just relax. And go get that disgrace to the name of CSI."

He took a deep breath and walked down to the stand. He felt the eyes upon him as he faced the crowd. And officer walked over to him, holding a bible. Following procedure, Greg placed one hand on the bible and one hand in the air.

"Do you swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?" asked the officer, also following procedure.

"Yes," said Greg dully. The officer walked away, and Greg sat down. Then, Castor approached him. It wasn't regular to start off with the defense, but then again it wasn't a regular case. With a living victim - two living victims - he supposed Roger's lawyer was not trying to prove Roger's innocence, but David's guilt.

"State your name," he said.

Greg leaned forward and spoke slowly into the mike. "Gregory Sanders."

"Spell your name, for the record."

Greg did as Castor instructed.

"Now, I understand you saw you were kidnaped by my client."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "I don't just say so. That's what happened."

"Oh, really?" There was a glint in his eye that said Castor had a plan. "Tell us what happened, please, Gregory"

"I was nearly alone in the crime lab," said Greg. "Everyone else was out on cases and I was assigned Lab duty. And a man, this man –" He pointed. "-- Roger Mason, he came up to my desk. And he asked if I knew where Sara Sidle was. I said that she wasn't available. Then, he asked for Catherine Willows. I said she wasn't available either. Then he -"

"Mr. Sanders, is this really necessary?" asked Judge Saber.

"S-sorry," said Greg, getting nervous. "So I told him that I was the only CSI available."

"But...are you in fact, a CSI?" asked Castor, folding his arms.

"No, I am not. I'm - I'm a trainee. But I told him that," he added quickly. "And he told me that he could get me a job as a CSI in Carson City. So - so I went with him."

"You just got up and left?" said Castor. "Just went along with a complete stranger?"

Greg blushed. It was an embarrassing subject. "Yes. That's correct. I know. It was a stupid thing to do."

"I agree," smiled Castor. "Continue."

"Well, after a while I realized we weren't going where he said we were. And I told him to bring me home, but he didn't listen. And then, I saw another car, and we pulled over. He got out of the car, and told me to stay."

"Mr. Sanders, did you realize then you had the perfect opportunity to escape?"

Greg blinked. He figured out Castor's plan: to make him look incredibly stupid so that the jury did not believe a lot of his testimony. Was he going to do the same thing with Sara? "I did realize this," he answered. "But I didn't think I could make it very far if I just ran on foot. So...I tried to hot-wire the car."

"But isn't that stealing?" said Castor in mock confusion.

"In a situation where one feels one's life is threatened, normally unacceptable behavior is deemed acceptable," quoted Greg, remembering something he read in an old textbook.

"You felt your life was threatened?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Greg blinked again. "What do you mean 'why?'"

"I mean, _why_ did you feel your life was threatened? Did you see that my client was armed? Did he make a threat on your life? Why?"

Greg put a hand to his face and thought for a second. "No...not that I can recall exactly..." He frowned. Was he going to be charged with stealing a car now, or something?

"So you just _felt_ threatened, so you decided to steal his car?"

"Objection, Your Honor!" called the prosecutor, Kampbell. "We are not trying the witness, and it's obvious that in those circumstances, he felt it necessary to-"

"I'm going to have to ask you to withdraw that statement, Mr. Castor."

"Of course, Your Honor," Castor said apologetically. "Go on with your story, Mr. Sanders."

Greg nodded. "Well, I couldn't do it fast enough. Soon, Roger came back and pulled me out of the car and threatened to kill me if I tried to escape. He then gave me over to David Mason–" Greg pointed "–who gave me back to Roger. And then they began arguing."

"Arguing? Over what?"

"Over - over me," said Greg sheepishly. "David Mason said I was just a kid, while Roger kept insisting I was fit for anything he needed a CSI for."

"And what _did_ he need you for?"

"He- he planned to kill me."

Castor raised an eyebrow. "Really? When did you learn this?"

"Well, I thought I was going to die anyway...so I asked Mr. Mason - Roger - what he was planning to do with me."

"And he said 'kill you'?"

"No, sir," Greg shook his head. "Roger told me that he was offered, from what I believe, a large sum of money by his brother, David Mason, to drive a CSI from the Las Vegas Crime Lab to a certain part of the highway. It was David Mason who explained his intentions."

"But did you ask David Mason _his_ plans?"

"No, I did not."

"So...he just told you, out of the blue, that he was planning to kill you?"

"No, Roger asked him."

"He did, did he?" Castor smiled. "So Roger didn't know these plans."

"It was apparent that he didn't."

"So he had no idea that his brother was planning to kill you?"

"Well..." Greg tried to think back, but it was hard to concentrate with all those people anticipating his answer. So, he just said, "no. Not- not a clear idea, least."

"Interesting..." said Castor. "What happened next?"

"Well, they got into another argument. Once Roger heard David's plan, he asked some more questions about it. Here, he learned that David expected _him_ to do the killing. And he refused, and dropped his weapon."

"Aha!" called Castor, startling Greg and turning to the jury box. "He _dropped_ his weapon, clearly of his own free will. I would not call my client's actions _heroic..._but they are certainly not criminal!" He turned back to Greg. "And this permitted you leeway?"

"Yes, but only for a moment," said Greg. "I ran away, but I - I tripped." He went red - he had practically just told the whole crowd of people what an idiot he was. "And David Mason chased me down and brought me back to where I was before. Here, he threatened to kill Roger if he didn't kill me."

"His own brother!"

"Yes, his own brother."

"And...what did Roger do?"

"Well, first he looked like he was going to do it. But then, he realized he couldn't, and he dropped the gun again."

"And this let you escape?"

"Yes. I took the gun and ran away. This time, they didn't try to run after me."

Castor smiled. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he said, approaching the jury box, "my client is not a bad person. As the witness says, he did not know of the plan of murder. And when he heard about it, he refused to be a part of it and permitted young Gregory to escape. Twice. And even when he had a gun at his back, Roger Mason did not give in to what he thought, what he _knew_, was right! He is the opposite of a criminal." Castor had twisted around so many of Greg's words, it was difficult to correct him. He took his seat and smiled at Roger. Roger did not return the gesture.

"Mr. Nadar, do you have any questions for the witness?" asked Judge Saber.

Nadar did not look happy. He clearly was not sure how to contradict the words of a victim that was still alive. David looked ready to kill his court-appointed lawyer as Nadar said, "No. No questions. Not for this witness."

"Mr. Kampbell?"

"Yes," Kampbell stood up and walked over to the stand. Greg was ready to persecute with all his strength...but when he looked over at the defendant, something in his mind clicked. The black eye. What Roger wanted was ridiculous. No matter how much he said he wanted to go, what he was going through with his brother would be ten times worse in jail. And then, he realized something that Roger obviously didn't - David was going to jail, too. Who knows how long he would last with that man hovering around him 24/7? If Roger died in jail, Greg's stomach churned at the thought, surely he would feel responsibility. He had no choice.

"Mr. Sanders," Kampbell said, "I have a few minor questions about your story."

"Go ahead."

"First off," he started, "after our first attempted escape with the car, you say that Roger Mason threatened to kill you?"

"Yes...no," said Greg, thinking hard.

"'No?' what do you mean no?"

"Well, not only me," said Greg slowly. "He said he'd kill anyone I tried to call for help."

"And why did he threaten this, exactly?"

"How should I know?" said Greg, annoyed.

"Do you think he just wanted the money very much and was trying to get you there?"

"Again, I don't know. Ask him when _he_ testifies."

"Or do you think that he just enjoyed taunting you?"

"Objection! He's leading the witness!" called Castor.

"Withdrawn," said Kampbell. He moved on. "You also said that Roger Mason did not know of David Mason's plans, correct?"

"As far as I know."

"And yet, after he learns of the plan to kill you, he still does not let you go."

"Yes, he did."

"But not until after he learned that _he_ was expected to do the killing."

Greg tried to understand this. "I suppose you're right..."

"Greg, you're a smart boy," said Kampbell, trying to prove the opposite of Greg that Castor was, "you're a CSI trainee. What does something like this tell you about Mr. Mason?"

"It tells me that either he doesn't want to kill or he doesn't want to go to jail," he answered honestly. He frowned, realizing where this was leading.

"So...Mister Mason didn't care what happened to you as long as he wasn't involved?"

"Uh...well..." Greg trailed off, unsure of what to say.

"Please answer the question, Mr. Sanders," said Judge Saber.

"Well, I'm not sure how to answer that," said Greg. "You keep asking me what Roger was feeling or thinking, and I don't know."

Kampbell sighed. "Fine," he mumbled. "Now, you said that David Mason chased you. Where was Roger at this time?"

"Waiting by the cars, I expect."

"So he was just standing there?" said Kampbell, pacing back and forth. "Just waiting. He didn't go for help? He didn't try to stop David Mason?"

Greg shrugged. "I guess not."

"Is there any logical reason for not helping?"

"Panic,"Greg said, eyes on the ceiling, desperately trying to remember all the reading he did before he got a job, "or perhaps he was threatened, too."

"Or just maybe..." said Kampbell, trying to word his question carefully, "maybe he just didn't give a damn about your fate!"

"Objection!" cried Castor.

"Sorry, Your Honor, withdrawn." Kampbell put his hands to his face, thinking. He smiled. "Just one more question, if you please, Mr. Sanders."

"Go ahead."

"When Roger Mason was threatened by David Mason to kill you, what went through you head?"

"I thought I was a goner," said Greg. "The circumstances certainly said so."

"And...did you thin he meant to kill you?"

"Well, under the circumstances, it was inevitable -"

"Do you think he _meant_ to kill you?"

"Meant? I don't know what you -"

"Please, answer the question, Mr. Sanders," said Judge Saber. "And remember, you are under oath."

Under oath. He had to tell the truth. The truth was the right thing. And he wanted to do the right thing. "Yes," whispered Greg. "There was a smile on his face."

There were gasps from the jury and the crowd. It sounded like the reaction to a revealing clue on a soap opera. Even the prosecutor looked flabbergasted, although he was also smiling due to the breakthrough in the case.

"He _smiled?"_ said Kampbell, shocked.

"Yes. Are we done here?"

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," said Kampbell, "Roger Mason. He threatened to kill Sanders before he knew that was the plan; only lets him go because he doesn't want to go to jail; he didn't call for help when his brother chased Sanders down; and he smiled when pointed a gun in the victim's face. Tell me, does this sound to you like...a criminal, maybe?" The jury nodded amongst themselves. They were now all turning in the direction of the prosecution. Kampbell went in for the kill. "So, honorable people of the jury, answer me this - is Roger Mason a criminal!"

"No!"

Kampbell; the eyes of the jury, crowd, defendants, lawyers, and Judge Saber turned to the stand. Greg had shouted his answer into the microphone, and it now echoes in his ears as he stared back the prosecutor.

"What?"

"He's not a criminal. He's guilty of tricking me and scaring me. And by God, Roger Mason is also guilty of risking his own life to save mine."

"But- you said -" started Kampbell.

"I know what I said," said Greg. "I was just answering you questions honestly. But if Roger was so eager to kill me, why didn't he? He had every reason to. He had a gun at his back, no one was around...but no. And I know it was dark, but I could feel the look in David Mason's eyes - he _was_ willing to kill. Roger knew this, too. And yet, he dropped to his knees and sobbed in anguish, probably because he knew he would now die, because he would not kill me."

No one said anything. Roger was looking back at Greg with an expression that was hard to read. It was somewhere between anger and confusion. But Greg smiled in retaliation. Kampbell took his seat quietly. Greg stood up and, with all the pride in the world, made his way back through the aisles and sat down.


	15. The Trial, Part 2: What's Behind These C...

**Chapter Fifteen The Trial, Part 2: What's Behind These Cold Eyes**

"**W**hat the hell was that?" hissed Sara. She seemed beyond angry: she was pissed. But Greg didn't care. "We had him!" she continued. "He was going down! The jury was eating up Kampbell's prosecution like candy, and then _you_ had to go and tell them that he's a _good person!_"

Greg looked back at her narrowed eyes. She didn't understand. But she would.

"We call Sara Sidle to the stand, please," called a voice. She turned to go, hoping to undo Greg's testimony.

"Sara."

She turned around. Greg was staring up at her with a pleading look in his eyes. "When you get up there," he said softly, "look at his face. Just...look at it. Before you go against him..."

Sara nodded, wondering what the hell he was talking about, and went off into the spotlight. She took her oath and then her seat at the stand. She looked out at all the faces of the crowd, but avoiding the defense table, even when the attorney came up to her. He asked her to state her name and then to spell it. She did so. Then he began with the questions.

"Miss Sidle, you also claim to have been abducted by my client?" asked Castor.

"That's correct. He tricked me into getting into his car." She stared straight ahead at him.

"Did he do this on his own?"

"No, he did not. Both of the Mason brothers played a part."

"Explain exactly how this happened, if you will."

"I was with my two co-workers, Warrick Brown and Nick Stokes, in a car, as we searched for Greg Sanders," Sara began, "and we got lost. We pulled over to ask for directions and I spotted two cars parked off on the side of the road. I found the two defendants standing close by the cars. I asked how to get to Carson City, which is where we believed Greg was. They told me that they were headed in that direction, too, and offered me a ride. I found this suspicious: why offer me a ride when it was obvious I had my own car? I took out my flashlight to see if one of these men was our suspect, when Mr. Mason - Roger - fell to his knees and began coughing violently."

"Did you follow procedure to get this man to the emergency room?" asked Castor.

"Yes...and no," Sara admitted. "I called for an ambulance, when Mr. Mason - the coughing one - asked me in a hoarse voice to take him there personally. It was clear that he might not make it if we waited for the ambulance, so I went into one of their cars and pulled back onto the road with both Masons in the back seat. David Mason told me to go down the I15 to get to the hospital."

"You just- took the car," Castor said, "without asking?"

"I was in a dire situation," Sara said. "And neither of them seemed to object to it, anyway. Nick and Warrick needed the car I came in to further follow the clues on finding Greg. What else was I expected to do?"

"You say David Mason is the one who gave you directions to the hospital?"

"Well..." said Sara, thinking. That was a difficult question. "He...told me where to go, but we never ended up getting there."

"Why did you feel that _you_ were obligated to drive, Miss Sidle?" said Castor, now realizing he was on to something. "You didn't _have_ to get in that car. There were two men. One of them could have driven the other."

"You mean, just _leave_ them there and hope that they get to the hospital on time?" Sara shot back. "If I did that, you'd be persecuting me for it here, too. I did what I judged best to do. I intervened and I paid my price for it."

"Alright, Miss Sidle, if you insist your judgment was best," said Castor with a little bit of sarcasm in his tone. "However, you have still not explained how this qualifies as kidnaping."

"Once I got on the road, I felt something cold on the back of my neck," Sara said, indicating a small red mark on the back of her neck. "David Mason was holding a gun against me. And it was all due to that bastard tricking me into that car."

"Hold it," said Castor, putting up a hand. "You blame my client for what David Mason did to you in that car?"

"As a matter of fact, I do," said Sara, again avoiding looking at the defense table. In doing this, she glanced at Greg, who was shaking his head, urging her not to say what she was about to. She ignored him and proceeded. "I wouldn't have had to go through the entire ordeal that I did if it were not for that man, sitting there."

"But who are you to say," said Castor, advancing on the stand, "that my client's 'violent coughing' was false? Are you a doctor?"

"No," said Sara, "but-"

"Then how can you sit up here and tell the jury that you are positive he was only coughing in order to trick you into that car!"

Sara sat with her arms folded. "I'm not saying that I'm absolutely sure," she said. "But since he stopped as soon as his brother drew weapon on me, I can deduce that fact. He -" While saying these words, she had looked over at her kidnaper. At this, her words were cut short. Her mouth hung open slightly as she stared at Roger's eyes. One of them was nearly swelled closed, but the other showed disappointment. It said that he clearly didn't care in the least what happened to himSara sympathized with him...he wanted to get away so badly. Greg was right, he needed their help no matter how much he defied it. If he wasn't going to defend himself, who would?

"Yes, Miss Sidle?" asked Castor, still pending her unfinished answer.

"Never mind, Mr. Castor," she said. "Roger Mason _did_ trick me into getting into the car, but he also helped me get out of it. After a few miles down the road, David Mason stepped out of the car for a smoke, leaving his brother with the gun to keep me from running away. Once the car got moving again, Roger Mason and I were in an agreement: he would help me get back to Las Vegas."

Castor looked up and smiled. "Tell the jury how he helped you out."

"He came up with a series of ingenious plans," she said, smiling. "Three, I think. The first two didn't work, but he had no choice but to use his third one. That one worked."

"Wait, I'm confused," said Castor, in a tone that suggested he wasn't actually confused, but recognizing how he could use this to his advantage. "I thought you escaped during a standoff between CSI Brown, Roger Mason, and David Mason. Isn't that correct?"

"Yes," said Sara. "I know that. But Roger Mason planned ahead to borrow my gun in case he needed to use it. I'm glad he did. Otherwise, I might not be here speaking to you right now."

"So, you say that the standoff at the end, where David Mason put a gun to your head," said Castor, "when my client shot him, that was in your defense?"

Sara thought a minute. It wasn't really...but it started that way. And now she saw that the fate of a lonely and abused man was in her own hands. "Yes," she answered confidently. "He drew the gun to save my life, and it worked."

Castor smiled broadly. "No further questions, Your Honor."

"Mr. Nadar, do you have any questions for _this_ witness?" said Judge Saber.

Nadar nodded and stood up. David looked relived, but he watched carefully, sure that his lawyer was full of flaws.

"Miss Sidle," said Nadar, "you were driving the car."

"That's right, Mr. Nadar."

"If you were driving, how did you know that it was my client who held the gun against you?" he asked in one breath.

Sara raised her eyebrows. "It was my natural assumption," she answered. "First of all, he was the one who was threatening me. Second, he handed it off to Roger Mason when he got out of the car."

"Yes, but that wasn't until after you were a few miles out," said Nadar, getting his act together. "The first person to hold the gun might have been my client's brother. Then, he could have handed it to my client. They could have been handing it back and forth the entire time and you would not realize it."

"I think I would realize if -"

"You were facing forward, correct, Miss Sidle?" asked Nadar without waiting for an answer. "The only people who know what went on in the back seat were the defendants, and neither of them has taken the stand yet. Your testimony about who was holding the gun does not prove anything."

Sara was left speechless. She hated lawyers. She especially hated _this_ lawyer. Skimming her eyes over the jury, she could see them muttering to each other again. Great.

"I have another question for you, if you don't mind," said Nadar.

"Actually, I do mind," said Sara, "but it's not like I can stop you from asking it, so go on."

Nadar ignored her rude comment. "You are a level-three CSI. Therefore, permitted to carry weaponry. Also, you stated that Roger Mason used your gun in attacking my client."

"Are you trying to ask why I didn't use my gun?"

Nadar nodded. "Yes. Why didn't you? You were absolutely obligated to."

"I couldn't exactly turn around while I was driving and shoot the person holding the arm on me," said Sara. "And if he saw I had a gun, he probably would have killed me before I could use it."

Nadar nodded again, and said, "So you were, so to speak, too afraid to take out your gun. And yet, my client claims that you were insulting him and his brother throughout the ordeal."

"Objection!" called both Castor and Kampbell.

"No further questions, Judge Saber," said Nadar, and he sat down, looking pleased with himself.

"If _I_ may, Your Honor?" said Kampbell, who was still standing. Judge Saber nodded and he walked up to Sara. "Miss Sidle, I noticed that you changed your testimony halfway through a sentence. Are you familiar with the term 'bipolar disorder?'"

Sara was taken aback. She actually felt the urge to slap the prosecutor. "Objection!" yelled Castor. "Questioning the witness's mental state is highly unnecessary."

"Agreed," said the judge. "Mr. Kampbell, please rephrase your question."

"No, it's alright, Your Honor," said Sara angrily. "I'll answer his rude question. I have heard of the disorder, Mr. Kampbell, but it does not affect me in any way. I changed my testimony because I realized how much Roger Mason helped me. But next time, Mr. Kampbell, please try phrasing your questions so that it _doesn't_ make you sound like a complete ass."

There were a few small gasps from the crowd and jury. As she looked over the courtroom, she saw that both Greg and Roger were laughing. The smile brought life to Roger's bruised and beaten face, and made Sara proud of her defense for him.

It was clear to all that Kampbell did not like Sara. But in a courtroom during a case was not the time nor place to be picking on a witness: he needed her to clear this case. He cleared his throat. "He helped you...how exactly did he do this again?"

"A series of plans," she answered, smiling.

"And what _were_ these 'plans' you speak so highly of?" he asked. "Please, tell us."

Sara put a hand to her mouth. "The first one..." she said slowly, "he pretended to be thirsty. When he drank down all the water in the car, he asked David Mason to get some water from the trunk."

"And...water helped you?" said Kampbell in real confusion.

"Well, it was clear to me," said Sara, "that he was hoping that David would get out of the car by himself. Once he got out, I could drive away, leaving him behind."

"Clear to you," Kampbell repeated. "I've never heard of anything less clear. How can you be sure that your interpretation was his actual intentions?"

"What else would they be?" Sara said, forcing a laugh to make Kampbell's accusation sounds ridiculous.

"Perhaps he was really thirsty," shrugged Kampbell.

Sara shook her head. "No, no...he was forcing it down in the car. He was definitely planning something."

"Alright, alright," said the prosecutor. "Tell me, why didn't this plan work?"

"David Mason caught on," said Sara sadly. "He found it suspicious that Roger asked him specifically to go get it. David then suggested that I go get it, and I was forced to go around to the trunk, looking for it. It was then that Roger came out with us and came up with his second scheme."

"And, pray tell, what was this one?"

"This time, he tried to get me to fall into the trunk," she said. "And then he would drive off before David had time to get back into the car."

Kampbell jumped at an opportunity here. "Tried to get you in the trunk? He knows there's no air in there! He wasn't trying to help you out. He was trying to suffocate you!"

"No way!" said Sara. "If he was trying to kill me, he would have done it already. Besides, it's not like he tried to push me in the trunk."

"If you insist," said Kampbell, "but trying to get you in the trunk of a car isn't going to look good no matter how you put it. What's the third one?"

Sara swallowed. He was going to get her on this one. "He took my jacket. The one that had my gun in it." Kampbell shouted "aha!" but Sara interjected, "Keep in mind he used it to save me!"

"What he did in the end doesn't matter!" cried Kampbell. "He took your gun, your only defense. If he was really trying to help you, don't you think he would have let you keep the gun?"

"When he had the gun," Sara said, standing up, "when we were on the side of the road, he could have killed me. There was no one around, but he didn't! He didn't even keep me at bay with that gun, he just held it at the side! And then he agreed to help me-"

"But as Mr. Sanders' testimony said," continued Kampbell, "Roger Mason threw his gun aside because he didn't want to go to jail. And that could be the reason he helped you - because he didn't want to go to jail -"

"Objection!" screamed Castor. "He's leading the witness!"

"Please, Your Honor," called Kampbell, "I am not leading her. I am merely making logical conclusions from the things that the witnesses themselves have said previously." He turned back to Sara. "Miss Sidle. Could it be the only reason that Roger Mason was helping you is because he didn't want to go to jail?"

"No, that's not -"

"What makes you so sure it's not? It's only, human after all. Who wants to go to jail?"

"_He_ wants to go to jail," said Sara, pointing at Roger Mason. The attorneys stopped shouted at each other, Judge Saber stopped banging her gavel, the jury stopped their incessant muttering, and the crowd fell silent. Roger blushed. "He told me last week that he wants to go to jail. He was only helping me because it was the right thing to do."

"But if he really wanted to go to jail," said Kampbell, trying not to lose his head again, "then why didn't he kill Greg? Or you? Hell -" he cut off. "If he really wanted to go to jail, why hasn't he pleaded guilty?"

"No idea," said Sara. "Ask him. After all, I do believe it's his turn to take the stand."


	16. The Trial, Part 3: Money, it's a Crime

**Chapter Sixteen The Trial, Part 3: Money; It's a Crime**

**A** hush spread throughout the courtroom, diluting the ruckus that Sara's bold testimony had caused. The eye of the room turned to Roger Mason, waiting in anticipation, watching him. He tried to ignore it, but he could feel them eyeing his prison uniform, waiting and staring as he struggled to stand up. He could not breathe well through his nose; his mouth hung open, drawing in the air slowly. Greg, now part of the eye he had feared at the stand, felt an urge to run up and help him, but he couldn't. He was close to tears witnessing the sad scene before him.

At long last, Roger stood up straight. He walked to the stand with pride, declining walking help from Tom, and took his oath, one shaking hand on the Bible. Then he sat down, leering at the eye of the crowd as though they, too, were abusing him by looking at him.

His lawyer stepped forward, looking overexcited. Castor seemed as eager as the audience to hear the story from the bad guy's point of view, even though he knew and planned exactly what his client was going to say. All the enthusiasm bearing down on him made Roger feel sick. He turned his eyes towards the opposite side of the room.

"Roger Mason," said Castor, "you stand here today, accused of two counts kidnaping, one count attempted murder, and three counts misuse of a firearm. How does that make you feel?"

Roger blinked slowly as though it were taking his brain a long time to comprehend the simple question. After a minute, he made a move towards the mike. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He noticed this, and tried a second time to speak. "I feel...bad," he said, his voice slightly nasal. "I feel terrible for what I did."

Castor's broad grin faded. That was not the answer they had discussed. "Oh...kay. So - you...you show regret. For..for...uh..." He trailed off, annoyed that his client was being truthful rather than eager to save his own skin. He cleared his throat and adjusted his tie. "Well, we've already heard the...the story from the point of the victims. What...can you tell us what happened before you came to meet Greg Sanders?"

"Yeah," Roger said casually, but no one could fail to notice that he sounded like his nose was plugged. Even Castor looked uncomfortable. "I remember it well. I was working in my office, writing a report for the Carson City Crime Lab. I worked day shift there - well, I did until I got arrested." He didn't look like he was upset about getting fired. "That day - the day of my crime spree -" Castor put a hand to his face after this comment. "- my darling brother, David Mason, came to me with an offer." He gave a big, fake smile when he mentioned David, revealing two chipped teeth.

"What offer was that?" asked Castor, who was exasperated from his case being screwed up right after it was thrown wide open.

Roger still avoided looking directly at anyone. This was not too difficult to do, as one of his eyes was almost completely swollen shut. "He said he would give me...a lot of money...if I went out to the Las Vegas Crime Lab and brought a CSI to the Interstate 15. He said I would see his car and I should pull over there. I took up the offer."

"And how _much_ money was your brother offering you?"

Closing his eyes, Roger heaved a sigh. "A crapload."

Castor also sighed. This was most definitely not one of his favourite cases. "Can you be more specific, please, Mr. Mason? How much is 'a crapload?'"

Roger shifted uncomfortably. "100 thousand...dollars," he said slowly.

In the audience, there were murmurs. Greg raised his eyebrows in disbelief. He never thought it would be that much. With this new information, he found that if placed in Roger's situation, he would have also taken David up on the offer, no questions asked. Still, he wondered what he would do with all that money...which led him to wonder what Roger wanted to do with all that money.

"Wow," said Castor in wonder, even though he already knew how much it was. "That is a lot of money. So you just took him up on the offer, no questions asked?"

"Wouldn't you?" said Roger, forcing a small laugh. Greg frowned. He was a good liar and a quick thinker, but he was a terrible actor. The falseness of the chuckle must have struck the prosecutor, too, for he began scribbling down notes on a paper in front of him furiously.

"Personally? I suppose I would," said Castor. "Indeed. If it was any less, I _would_ start asking questions."

He was leading Roger on. "I guess so. But really, I just needed some money. I might not have asked even if it was a grand."

Castor ignored his client's last sentence and went on. "Do you think maybe...he offered you so much money to lead you astray so that you wouldn't ask any questions?"

"Maybe," said Roger. "I don't know. It's possible."

Castor looked down, thinking. He came back up. "So you had no idea what his intentions were?"

"Not completely," admitted Roger, "but for the past few weeks he'd been muttering to himself about how he was going to make our Lab the best, no matter what it took. From this, I pieced together a vague idea of what -"

"No further questions, your honor!" called Castor loudly over Roger's magnified voice, cutting him off before he had a chance to further kill the defense.

"Mr. Nadar?" asked Judge Saber, who hadn't felt the need to say anything in a while.

"A few," said Nadar, looking sideways at the prosecutor. He stood up, staying where he was, as though he expected a brief answer to his quick question. He cleared his throat. "What makes you so sure that my client's intentions were bad?"

"I said, he was muttering to himself for weeks -"

"Why did you think it was an intent to kill? How do you know he didn't want to recruit someone?"

"I really don't think it matters what _I_ think," said Roger. "The point is that, a) I had an idea of his intentions and still took the money, and b) in the end, it turned out that I was correct."

"Also," said Nadar, smiling as Castor put his hands to his face in a fury, "at the time that he came to you, were you aware that my client only had 200 dollars in his account?"

A small hush fell over the courtroom as they watched the defendant's stand, waiting to see what his response would be. In a way it was sickening; people just staring ahead like he was some sort of TV show that was about to reveal a major plot twist. Roger did not want to give them a show, but he had no choice but to answer the truth. He leaned in towards the mike and said softly, in that same nasal voice, "I thought...he had the money stashed somewhere."

Nadar grinned at the look of devastation on the defendant's face. Feeling his job was done, he went back to sit with his client. Kampbell got up and took over. Roger still was unnerved from the last attorney's questions, which made it easier for him to tenderize him.

"So...you knew he had no money in his account, and you had an idea of what he was planning - and yet you asked no questions?" Kampbell said in mock outrage.

"I know him," said Roger slowly. "He's always been mistrusting of banks and the like, I thought maybe...he could have had it hidden in his apartment for all I knew. I trusted him. He's my brother."

"You didn't trust him," said Kampbell accusingly.

"Excuse me? How can you tell me what I was feeling?"

"I said, you didn't trust him," repeated Kampbell. "How could you trust him like a brother when he's been verbally and physically abusing you?"

Still looking away towards the far wall, his eyes widened in fear. "Who -who said that?"

Kambell looked in his notes. "We were told that by Mr. Gregory Sanders."

Roger's eyes immediately flew through the crowd until they found Greg's. He looked sadly at him, as though desperately asking why he did it. Greg blushed, and looked back with the same sad gaze. Kampbell's questions continued, and Roger felt as though his words were a drilling into his brain. He didn't feel well enough anymore to hear the rest of his own trial.

"I expect that he's the source of your various wounds that made you late this morning, Mr. Mason," Kampbell buzzed.

Roger was shaken, and did not take his eyes off of Greg. He felt something wet fall down the side of his cheek, and touched it: a tear. "Next question," he said hoarsely.

Kampbell liked the direction in which he was heading, and wanted to prod on. He looked up at the Judge. "Your honor, I haven't gotten an answer to the question yet."

Judge Saber looked down at Roger, but didn't notice that he was crying. "I suggest you answer the question, Mr. Mason, unless you want to be charged with something else."

Roger refused. He shook his head. "You've figured it all out. Don't make me say anymore. You don't need it."

Kampbell pressed on. Now it was just out of pure spite that he was doing this. "Answer me!" he cried. "Are those wounds - that black eye, those bruises on your back, your bloody nose - are they from your brother?"

"Yes, dammit!" Roger shouted into the microphone. "Yes! I want to get the hell away from David Mason! That's why I pleaded guilty! That's why I needed money! And that's why I did what he told me to do without asking questions! Fear. And desperation."

He moved the microphone away as he put his head in his hands and began to sob. The crowd continued to watch his every move, watching as the tears flowed, listening as he cried out, sniffling at the sad scene before the ever-staring eye. Greg and Sara could not bear to watch anymore and turned their heads towards the wall that Roger had stared at throughout his interrogation, wondering why no one was doing anything to help or stop him, wondering why they were letting him carry on like that and allowing everyone to watch.


	17. The Trial, Part 4: Till Death Do Us Part

**Chapter Seventeen The Trial, Part 4:** **Till Death Do Us Part**

**D**avid sat and waited as his brother finished embarrassing himself. He was making an idiot of himself in front of a crowd of people, squeezing them for the sympathy he said he didn't want. Looking over at the sobbing fool, he realized this was his own doing. That made him smile. For nearly ten minutes, he watched the tears flow, enjoying every moment, wearing a sick, twisted smile. "You're sick, David Mason," he said to himself, but that only pleased him more.

When the ten minutes were over and Roger was sent back to his seat with a box of tissues (David sniggered hard when they handed it to him), Dave looked over at his brother's red, swollen face, repressing the urge to laugh his ass off. His smile was not unnoticed by both defense lawyers. Nadar raised his eyebrows and seemed as though he were afraid of his own client. Castor and Nadar both seemed to tell him telepathically, "You're a cruel man." He showed no remorse for his feelings, and instead stood up.

Greg followed his movements with narrowed eyes. It was not normal for someone to be happy after what had just happened in the courtroom; Greg came to the conclusion that David must be crazy. It would certainly explain a lot. He glanced over at Sara, who also had a horrified look on her face that David seemed proud of his accomplishments. She looked ready to kill him.

Roger could not stand to look. His eyes flickered towards the windows through which dusk was coming on fast, dissolving the remaining light and hope that was left outside in the world and inside in his heart. Life was harsh. But if he was lucky, he would get to be away from his brother forever. Even if he was locked behind bars, caged in like an animal, it was much better than what would happen if they were both found innocent.

But the trial would soon be rendered pointless: David was in the midst of taking his oath, a falsely sincere smile on his pale, thin face, when a member of the jury let out a loud, audible yawn. Judge Saber looked over at the jury box, and in doing so, noticed the window and how dark it was outside. She bent her head and glanced at her wristwatch, raising her eyebrows.

"Wait, wait," she said to the officer holding the bible next to David. "Don't let him take the stand. It's later than I thought." She looked up, clutching her gavel. "I was hoping we'd be able to do this in one day, but what's a few more hours tomorrow?" There was a single _bang_! "Bring the Mason brothers to the courthouse's cells. We'll continue this trial tomorrow morning at 8 am. This time-" she glared at Castor. "-everyone better be on time."

The crowd and jury silently got up and went out of the courtroom without a word to each other. Even Sara and Greg didn't speak, preferring to watch the reaction of the defendants and lawyers to the delay.

Roger looked up when it was announced that the trial would be continued later, and could barely believe it when everyone got up and began to file out. No way...not another day stuck next to that maniac! Not another day pending whether he would live until next week! Even as David was cuffed again and led back to the holding cells, Roger did not get up, in the hopes that everyone would come back in a few minutes and they would continue now. Tom approached him with a pair of jingling handcuffs in hand, took one of his arms and clicked the metal restraint around his wrist. This couldn't be it...this couldn't be the last moment of his life. He wouldn't let it end this way, he wouldn't go out quietly. They would have to drag him kicking and screaming! As Tom grasped his other arm, he wrenched it free, and jumped up from his chair, backing away from the cop, handcuffs hanging from one arm. The clatter caught the remaining crowd's attention. They stopped walking, and turned in one movement to face the excitement. A different officer jogged down and tried herding the people out, but they refused to budge. Like a group of reporters, they were willing to defy the law and anything else they had to in order to catch a piece of the action first hand.

"No!" cried Roger desperately, taking a few steps backwards as some more officers rushed over to Tom's side and began advancing on him. "You can't bring me back there! Didn't you see what he did to me last time? He'll kill me!"

These words had no effect, and the officers kept coming forward slowly. One of them took out his nightstick and brandished it threateningly. At the sight of this, Roger panicked - he made a break for the jury room door. A cop leapt forward and caught him by the shoulder. The pair of them fell to the floor, and the cop, thinking he had Roger pinned, reached for the handcuffs and tried to get them around his other wrist. But Roger swung them around like a mace, striking the officer in the face. At once, the other cops ran forward, nightsticks in hand, trying to knock Roger out. The crowd let out a few gasps as the police knelt down, holding Roger down with one hand and raising their clubs with the other. Tom stood by, watching: his club was in hand, but he couldn't find it in his heart to use it.

Greg turned away and tried to push his way through the rest of the crowd who, it seemed, would watch anything as long as there was some action. But it was too concentrated, and he couldn't get out of the room. He closed his eyes as though in pain as the too-familiar yell echoed through the vast courtroom, over and over again, each time getting fainter and more breathy. At last, they stopped completely, and the crowd continued their journey to the parking lot. This was horrible, Greg thought. Hadn't he seen enough last week?

Finding an empty space between two avidly gossiping women, Greg pushed his way through the crowd as fast as he could to find some fresh air. His eyes shut tight, even when he could no longer feel people around him, he kept running forward until he hit into something. What he had hit into went "oof." He opened his eyes, looking up into an intelligent, bearded face. It was Grissom. Just what he needed - the man who determined if he was to become a CSI or not was seeing him cry. Over nothing!

"Hello, Greg," said Grissom, giving him a slight shove so that he would stop leaning on his chest. "Are you okay?" He added, noticing Greg's red face and eyes.

Greg was about to shake it off and say that he was fine, but he looked up into the wise, caring face and thought better. Grissom had authority. Grissom was well-liked and well-known. Grissom could help Roger. He shook his head. "Boss," he started, "One of the men they want to prosecute, Roger Mason...I think he's in mortal danger being held in that cell with his brother."

He half expected Grissom to laugh at this, but instead he looked thoughtful. "Is that a known fact, Greg, or is it just a theory?"

Greg was confused. "Uh...a theory, I guess."

Grissom thought again. "Do you have any evidence to that theory?" Great. It was just like Grissom to turn this into one of his cases.

Greg nodded. "Physical evidence. Not that I could present in court, but it's not like I need this for a trial, anyway. Just enough for the guards to understand that and move him to a different holding cell."

"Tell me this evidence."

"Well...in court today, Roger showed up late. And he had a..." Greg swallowed. This was difficult to say. He was embarrassed that he knew this information, because it seemed so unorthodox. But the lump in his throat would have to be put on hold. "...a black eye and bloody nose. And the officer that accompanied him - he said that he had more wounds..." Greg looked down as though it was his wounds he was describing. "In court, he said that his brother did it. It was forced out of him. And I believe him."

Grissom folded his arms and looked down on Greg. It was shocking how much taller he seemed with that look on his face. "Is this belief based on evidence or a whim?"

"I've got evidence," answered Greg, tired of this constant need for evidence. "I heard..." He swallowed again. The lump in his throat had just gotten bigger. "I heard a scream from the holding cells...a few night before."

"Well, as long as you're sure," said Grissom. "But people do lie, even under oath. And that scream could have been to fool-"

"It doesn't matter!" shouted Greg, exasperated. "A man could be in danger! If you heard a distress call, would you wait to see if it was genuine?"

Grissom stood silent. He did not look angry from Greg's outburst. On the contrary, he looked intrigued. Then, he cracked a smile. "It's good to see you stand up for what you believe in."

"And I hope you believe me, Grissom," said Greg. "I need your help."

"My help?" asked Grissom. "You know I'm not supposed to get involved-"

"You're head of graveyard shift in one of the best crime labs in the country! If you tell the guards it's not safe for Roger to stay here, they can move him into Las Vegas Crime Lab custody, and he'll stay alive for the remainder of his trial! Please, Grissom! There's no harm if I'm wrong, is there?"

There was a pause in which Grissom though for a moment. Then he sighed and nodded. "We'll go and visit the Masons, okay? And if we see anything, then we'll know, and we'll get him out of there, okay?"

Greg nodded eagerly, and the two of them walked off towards the holding cells. The hallway was white and empty, and it was eerie as their footsteps echoes off the walls. At last, they reached the chamber, where a large guard stood, arms folded, looking bored. As they approached, he snapped into a mode of authority. They stopped.

"I can't just let you come in here," he said. "It's the holding cells, you know. Got criminals in here. Who are you?"

"Gil Grissom, CSI 3," Grissom said automatically. "And this is my trainee, Greg Sanders. We need to visit the suspects you're holding in there."

"Sorry, no," said the guard unenthusiastically. "Didn't you see what happened in the courtroom today? After that, no one's allowed to see them who don't have proper protection."

"But surely if you were to accompany us-" Grissom started.

"No way in hell am I going in there!" said the guard in a slightly frightened voice. "After what I saw that guy do today, I wouldn't touch him with a 39 foot pole."

They had no choice but to turn around and go back down the echoing white hallway and back into the main entrance of the building. There was no one there anymore, even Sara had given up and gone home. Grissom looked around the deserted hallway. Greg knew he was thinking about what the guard had said.

"What _did_ he do today in court?" he asked. "Roger Mason. What did he do?"

Greg shrugged. "He kinda went ballistic," he answered, avoiding his boss's eye. "Smacked an officer in the face and tried to run away, until he was...beaten into submission." He could feel his eyes watering at these words, waited for it to pass, then continued. "He didn't want to go back to the holding cells. He was afraid of what his brother would do to him."

Grissom gave a sympathetic look that didn't quite suit him. He put a comforting hand on Greg's shoulder. "Go home. Get some sleep. It'll all turn out okay in the end."

Greg returned a half-hearted smile and went out into the parking lot. It was now a lot later than he had expected to get home, but that didn't really matter. His stomach was twisting in knots, worrying about Roger and about the rest of the trial the next day - if there was one. He barely got any sleep that night, and when his alarm went off and he opened his eyes to the light, he found that he didn't want to go anymore. Thinking logically, it was impossible for the worst not to have happened, after all the wounds _before_ the first part of the trial. Yet, it also seemed perfectly logical that they would just continue the trial from yesterday. He didn't want to go, either way. But he knew he had to, because he knew he would feel much much worse if he read the headline "Murder in the Las Vegas Court House Holding Cells" before finding it out himself.

Greg got back in his car and drove back to the parking lot he was in just a short amount of hours ago. Mumbling with tiredness, he slumped up the stairs to the Courthouse, and found himself in a jumble of people. A gigantic crowd had gathered in the main entrance, and they seemed to be encircling something. A flash went off - there must be reporters here. Greg spotted a few newscasters and video cameras. Were they broadcasting the second part of the trial?

Sara spotted him through the crowd and rushed over. The expression on her face was switching between jubilation and disappointment. "Greg, they can't continue the trial!" she cried. "Something..." she paused, unable to come up with the proper adjective for the situation. "...something happened!"

Greg's heart plummeted to his stomach. Was it true? Was he really about to read this obituary in the newspaper? He got on his toes and tried to see what everyone was staring at. Pushing his way through the crowd to get within earshot, he heard the guard he and Grissom had argued with yesterday talking to the reporters.

"I can't give you any information about the death in our holding cell," he was calling loudly. "Only that it was most likely a murder. There was another man we were holding, his brother, Mr. Mason, and he had the motive and opportunity to kill his brother. One thing I do not understand is how Mr. Mason got a hold of one of our officer's weapons. But judging by his violent behavior, it is likely that..."

The rest was drowned out over the roar of the crowd to hear more information regarding the murder in the cell. It was really true. Greg pushed his way back to Sara, tears starting to form at the corners of his eyes.

"I don't know why you're crying, Greg," Sara said. "Are you really that sensitive a guy? If you cry over every death you encounter, you're not going to do well as a CSI."

"Of course I'm crying!" Greg snapped. "Why aren't you? After all we did to try and help him, Sara, after all the warnings he gave us about his brother trying to hurt him, Roger's dead!"

"What?" asked Sara. Greg broke out, sobbing, and Sara began to chuckle softly. Greg looked up into her smiling face, and for once, felt he wanted to see it no more.

"What are you doing?" he cried. "Why are you laughing? Roger's dead, don't you care?"

"Of course I'd care if Roger's dead!" she said triumphantly. "But he's not dead!"

Greg took a step back so he could see her properly. "Not - not dead? But the officer-"

"There was a death in the holding cells," said Sara, her smile fading. "And Roger has something to do with it. David Mason was found this morning lying dead in a puddle of his own blood. And, of course, the number one suspect is Roger. But on the plus side, he's not dead."


	18. The Trail Turns Cold

**Chapter 18 **

**G**reg stared, unable to think of what to do or say next. _David_ was dead? How was that possible? And..._Roger_ did it? How as _that_ possible? The man was not a killer - three times, he had failed in killing someone because of his meek nature. Could fear and desperation be motive enough to turn him? Or was it something else? Or...was he not the culprit?

Sara frowned at Greg's expression. "Hello!" she called, waving a hand in front of his face. "David's dead. Aren't you happy? I've wanted to do something about that bastard for a while, and hey, the deed's done already."

"But Roger's going to get the blame for it!" Greg gasped, finding his voice. "Possibly even the death penalty."

"Yeah, well, serves him right for killing his brother," Sara said slowly. "Although I would've done it, too."

"Wait," Greg said, covering his face with a hand. "You're not saying you honestly believe Roger is the one who did it?"

"Come on, Greg," she scoffed. "Who else would it be? All the immediate evidence points to him. He was the only one there. He's got motive. Victim. Suspect. Crime Scene." She counted off the last three on her fingers.

In doing this, Greg realized that she was right. Who else could have done it? That guard wouldn't let anyone in to see them, let alone murder one of them. And Roger has all the motive in the world. For years, as he put it, he had been the victim of his brother's unceasing rage. But now, he had turned the tables - David was the victim. The only thing he couldn't quite put his finger on was how Roger got the weapon. The police hadn't found the murder weapon yet, and there certainly wasn't a lot of space to hide it in. So...was there a possibility he was innocent?

"Hang on," said Greg, smiling. "You said- crime scene."

Sara nodded. "Yeah."

"So..." Greg continued as though this were very obvious. "Is someone working the scene? You know...collecting evidence and such."

Sara realized where he was going with this, and shook her head. "No way, Greg. You wouldn't be allowed. You're not even a CSI yet, don't even think about taking this case-"

"I'm not," answered Greg slyly. "I know I'm not allowed to work the scene...but _you_ are."

"I can't just go process a random crime scene, Greg!" Sara cried, outraged. "_Especially_ a case that I was involved with!"

"Have Grissom process it with you," said Greg. "He won't say no. I'm sure of it."

That was a ridiculous request, and they both knew it. Processing a crime scene where there was cold, clear evidence that Roger did it was just plain desperate. Greg didn't even know if he believed it himself, just sure that he didn't want to believe that the man he had helped in court - after all he had done to him - would kill his brother. No, he wouldn't believe that! It couldn't be! But a someone was nagging at the back of his mind, a voice that sounded kind of like Grissom's. _"People lie,"_ it said. _"The evidence doesn't." _

"We haven't actually found any evidence," said Greg, obeying the voice. "All we have is a testimony."

"You don't need evidence, Greg, all you need is a sense of logic!" cried Sara. "Two men in a locked room, one of them ends up murdered. It's obvious to even someone in grade school who the culprit is!"

"But it wasn't a locked room," said Greg, taking out his cell phone to call Grissom. He wasn't quite sure what he was doing or _why_ he was doing it. Selfish reasons, probably. But it was automatic and in a slight panic, and so he didn't want to stop himself. If he was wrong about this, the lab might not let him live it down, but if he was right...he would be praised for all eternity.

"It was a locked room, Greg," said Sara, annoyed, as she tried to take away the cell phone and stop him before he made a fool of himself.

"But there weren't only two people in it!" he cried suddenly, and dialed the number. He smiled. That had to be the answer. He knew who it wasn't; so who else could it be? He lowered his voice and hissed, "The cop!"

"The cop," Sara repeated monotonously. "The cop. Of course, the cop! The cop did it! Are you insane?" She had been being sarcastic and her tone changed drastically during the last sentence. "The _cop_ did it? Think of what you're saying!" Greg shushed her, pressing his ear to the earpiece of the phone. She continued talking to him a low whisper as he waited for their boss to answer. "You're letting Roger get to your head. So he didn't kill you. Guess what? He didn't kill me either! But what reason did he have to kill us, he barely knew us? This is a man who had been abusing him for years, hell, for all we know, his whole life! Wouldn't _you_ kill him?"

"This isn't about me or you," lied Greg. "This is about Roger. Do you want him to die?"

"He's going to die even with your consent!" said Sara. "You can't let yourself get attached like this!"

"Look who's talking!" Greg snapped back. Oops. He took a step back, and hung up. "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean that. You're right. It's bad for the case to get attached."

"No," muttered Sara. "You're right. I have no right telling you not to get attached. But-" she added, "-you should think about it first, then take action. Give it time."

Time. It was something they had very little of, and yet Sara suggested he use it to think about things. During the time he was thinking, a man's life could be put to an early end. But...maybe it was supposed to be that way. As the day wore on and Greg went back to his job, the idea that he was wrong began to dwell on him. With every new case brought before him, every DNA sample he checked out, it brought him to realize that this DNA evidence could be all over the crime scene, that it probably _was_ all over the crime scene. By the end of the day, and with all the talk around him that Roger was guilty, he thought the same. He knew in his heart from the beginning that he wasn't innocent this time, but his guilty conscience had overridden it.

At the break, Greg walked out of the building (his cell phone safely in his pocket) to find Nick and Warrick standing outside a black SUV, Warrick's car. They waved as he passed, and he waved back, wondering why the hell they were standing out in the heat.

"Locked out?" Greg called across the parking lot.

"Naw, we were waiting for you," said Nick. "We're supposed to invite you along on our case."

"Oh?" he said, only slightly interested. "Where are you going?"

"You might be familiar with it," said Warrick, smiling. "You were there three times this week. And here's a hint: it's not 711."

"What?" asked Greg. They were taking the case at the courthouse? "It's a waste of time."

"Well, we're taking the case," said Nick. "And there's nothing you can do to stop us."


	19. The Third Clue

The three men approached the courthouse with as much dignity as they could muster with all those people in the main hall staring at them like a fireworks display. It would be a lie, Nick thought, to say that he didn't like the attention. There were probably three or four good-looking ladies in that crowd relying on him to be the hero of the day and solve the case. _I won't let you down, ladies._

Warrick walked past the crowd without a second glance at them. They should all be ashamed of themselves, wasting their time with something like this. Did they all expect to watch them work the scene like some popular crime drama? They could be writing a newspaper article or interviewing someone else or doing something useful instead of waiting here for definite answers that they weren't going to get. They all had to just do their job and ignore the press. Grissom had put them on this case, so there must be a reason for it. _I won't let you down, Grissom._

A guard unlocked the door to the cell and an unpleasant smell filled the air. Greg looked down to find David the coroner crouched over the dead body of David Mason. Upon seeing this man dead, he felt a strange sensation: it was almost surreal. He remembered how this despicable human being tried to kill him several times, remembered how he chased after him on a deserted highway, how he had turned a gun in his face over and over again. But now, they had to investigate his murder. But this wasn't for him. It was for his brother, to prove his innocence. _I won't let you down...Roger._

The air in the room was automatically tense. It felt as thought they had stepped into a comic book and they were the heroes. Greg even thought he felt a small breeze through his hair, but it must have been his imagination, for there were no windows.

David stood up. "Well, how he died is a no-brainer," he said, indicating the body. "Gunshot wound to the head."

"Well, if Roger did it," said Greg, thinking out loud, "he would have wanted to do it right."

"I'm not so sure he _did_ do it," said David honestly. He motioned for the CSIs to come over and see what he was talking about. He pointed to the wound. "It's perfectly center. right between the eyes, execution-style. If he got shot from the next cell over, the culprit had very good aim. But...that's just my small analysis. You guys are the CSIs." He took the body and left.

With a nod towards each other, the three of them spread out, crawling on hands and knees with flashlights in hand, searching for clues. There were a few minutes of silence. All that could be heard was the soft scuffling of knees across the stone floor.

"Murder weapon!" called Warrick, holding up a standard cop gun and then bagging it. The other two looked up, then turned back to their work. There was a much longer period of silence. Now it was so quiet that they could hear the grouped reporters outside the cell, coaxing the guard into telling them what was going on in there. Then -

"Uch!" cried Nick from David Mason's cell, which he had shuffled into when the coroner had left with the body. Both Greg and Warrick turned, hoping to find something interesting, but then Nick called, "nevermind, my hand just...slipped in the bloodpool...that's all. Yuk." He quickly put on another glove over it and continued what he was doing.

"Alright, I can't find anything in the culprit's cell," Warrick announced. "Greg, I'm coming over to your side of the chamber. Maybe there's something interesting by where the guards stand." He stood up and walked over to where Greg crawled, looking in corners for any signs of anything. Warrick leaned over his shoulder. "Ah, you rookie," he said, "you missed something already."

"What? Where?" said Greg eagerly. Warrick took his forceps and lifted what looked like a small, round, white pebble.

"It looks like a breath mint," said Greg, squinting at it.

"More like an aspirin. But who knows, in this town?" said Warrick, chuckling, putting it in a small plastic bag.

Nick tried to ignore them as they laughed behind him. Everything echoed around the room, making it difficult to concentrate. There wasn't much in this cell, either, besides that large puddle of blood he'd been trying to avoid. He scanned the flashlight along the edge of the wall. Dust, dust, and more dust. He wondered if some of the prisoners had asthma attacks here. The light scrolled over a particularly dusty edge and he saw something that definitely wasn't lint. It was a bunched-up ball of some soft material. He picked it up and saw that it was lined paper. Wondering vaguely what it was doing there, he carefully uncrumpled it. There was a note in clear black ink, roughly written because of the tough surfaces to lean on. His eyes widened as he read the wording.

"Guys...?" he said loudly.

They both came over and he could feel them reading it over his shoulder, both of them shocked at what they were reading. It was either a Red Herring...or a case breaker.

_I'm sorry, Roger_

_It's all my fault we're in here._

_I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't mean for any of this._

_I love you._

_Goodbye._

**Author's Note:** I realized to keep it dramatic I would have to split the investigation into 2 chapters instead of one. The next chapter will explain what the significance of everything they found. Yeah...all three things.


	20. Try Not to Kill Yourself

**Chapter Twenty Try Not to Kill Yourself**

(I've decided to do something new with the chapter and divide it into three sections - one for each clue, brought in by a different CSI)

**Nick**:

The note he held in his hands must be the case breaker. There was no way to know for sure at the moment, but the first line was a big clue to who the writer was. If he wasn't mistaken...this was a suicide note. It could render the entire search for clues pointless, it could shut down the investigation completely and, to make Greg happy, they would drop the murder charges on Roger. If only it was signed...

The other two stared over his shoulder, probably shocked. He smiled to himself, bagging the note, pleased with his work.

"I think we're done here," he said, failing to contain his excitement. "I'm gonna go analyze this, see if I can prove that our victim wrote it."

"But wait a second, Nicky," said Warrick. "I found the gun in Roger's cell. If he committed suicide, then it would have been found next to his body, or at least in his cell."

"Well, maybe Roger saw the gun but not his brother's dead body, and took it, trying to kill him, but he was already dead."

"That's pretty far-out," Warrick said skeptically.

"Hey," Nick shrugged. "Stuff like that can happen. This place is pretty dark."

"Yeah, but he still had to hear the gunshot."

"And what about my clue? The breath mint - aspirin?" asked Greg, correcting himself mid-sentence.

"It was found by the guard posts, not anywhere near where the real crime happened," Nick said. "It's probably of no significance."

He stepped past Greg and Warrick and went through the door to head back to the lab. At once, the press swarmed on him. He tried to ignore them but couldn't help but smile. The door opened again and the other two came out begrudgingly. Nearly blinded by the flashing bulbs as they escaped the courthouse, Nick got in the front seat of the car and turned on the engine. No one spoke on the way back. They were probably thinking about how they were going to tie their clues to the murderer, but Nick was absolutely sure that his clue was the most significant. How could they not think that?

As soon as he parked the car, he ran into the building to David the coroner. David must agree with his theory, he said that someone would have to be very good to have shot him from across the cell. The wound would tell the story.

David was bending over the body, seemingly studying it closely. But he looked up when Nick entered the room.

"Hi," Nick said, striding over. "I need to ask you some questions." David smiled in a friendly manner and acknowledged him. "Right. Did you find any pens on him, by any chance?"

"I don't think there are any pockets in the convict uniforms," David said. "And no, I didn't see any pens attached to his body." He smiled humorously.

"Well, then...another question. Would someone get these wounds if they...committed suicide?" Nick said slowly.

David looked confused, but gave a small nod. "Y-yes. I'm not going to say that's definite, but it's pretty consistent if he put the gun to his own head. By the way..." he said as Nick was about to leave the room, "I found that he had swelling at the back of his throat. I think it was an allergic reaction to something. So I sent a sample of his blood to tox."

"Okay," said Nick, not noting that he wasn't going to check up on that. Why did David bother doing that? The victim just probably yelled too much. The allergic reaction, if there was one, didn't cause his death, so what was the point?

Now Nick made his way towards the expert on handwriting. He was a large man with glasses and looked funny sometimes, but his expertise on paper, inks, and anything to do with writing couldn't be compared to. Nick wasn't quite sure what his name was, so he tried to avoid addressing him. "Hey," he said, pausing. "I need you to do a handwriting comparison." He took out the note and placed it on the desk.

The man cleared his throat. "I'd love to help you, Nick," he said slyly, "but to do a comparison, hey, I need something to compare it to."

Nick flushed red. "Oh...crap," he said, automatically searching his pockets. He didn't have a document to compare it to! What a stupid thing to forget! "Well...he's in the CSI database, does that help?"

The handwriting guy sighed. "More work for me, then," he muttered, moving in front of a computer screen. "Maybe it helps, I'm not sure. What's his name?"

"David Mason," Nick said monotonously.

The handwriting guy typed this into the computer and up popped a picture of a man with long blonde hair and a pair of glasses. David didn't look menacing there: in fact, he looked rather friendly. _Looks can be deceiving,_ Nick thought.

"Alrightee," said the handwriting guy, scrolling down the page. "He's been a CSI for six years, he's got to have filed a handwritten report at some point or another." His eyes continued to search the page hurriedly. At last, he clicked on a link that brought him to a roughly written report. He pressed the "print" button and a comparable copy soon made its way out of the printer. Mr. Handwriting took a small hand magnifier and pressed his eye over some of the lettering.

"Whoever wrote this," he murmured, "was a leftie."

"And...?" Nick said impatiently. "Does that compare to the other one?"

Mr. Handwriting lifted his face from the report and then put the magnifier over the note. "And whoever wrote this...was a leftie."

"So...are they the same person or not?"

He went back and forth between the papers a few times before motioning for him to come over. "Notice the 'g' in 'Roger,'" he noted, "and the 'g' in 'interrogative.' They're the same. And the way the 'i's are dotted with lines rather than dots. I would say...they are the same handwriting."

Nick smiled. He knew it. Forgetting to utter a thanks to the handwriting guy, he picked up the note and walked out proudly. He went to go find Warrick and Greg and tell them what he knew happened. David felt so guilty that he was abusive that he had killed himself to end Roger's agony. It made perfect sense and he had proof from both the handwriting guy and David the coroner that it was a suicide.

**Warrick:**

Warrick stood there, holding the bagged gun, watching Nick as he walked out of the crime scene clutching the note he found like a trophy. That note could have been easily forged and thrown in a corner by a ruthless Roger. That's why the gun was in _his_ cell. Nick was probably blinded by his own mind, but he would soon find out that the note was not written by David, it was written by Roger or someone else to cover the murder. But it didn't make sense that they had forgotten to hide the murder weapon. . .

"I don't care what Nick says," he said mostly to himself than to the rookie still crouched on the cell floor. "I'm gonna follow this clue. It doesn't make sense for the gun to be here. It must have been a murder."

"Yeah," said Greg. "I'm gonna follow my clue, too." He held up the bagged aspirin.

Warrick looked at the little white pill and actually fought back a laugh. "Oh, Greg. I hardly think headache medicine is going to solve a murder. A guard probably dropped it, like Nick said. I don't think it really has anything to do with the case."

"Well, _you_ found it," said Greg. "And for all we know, it has _everything_ to do with the case."

The two of them got up and followed Nick to the swarming mob of media. Bright flashbulbs went off in various directions, nearly blinding them all. Nick seemed to be star-struck for a moment, but then he moved out and Warrick followed behind him quickly. He jumped in the front seat next to the driver and sat quietly. The silence was so awkward: he wondered why no one was saying anything. A few times, he tried to start up a conversation, but the ambience said that no one would reply.

As they pulled up to the lab, Nick unbuckled his seatbelt, eager to get out and prove his case. Warrick was just as eager. He watched Nick run out towards the building, and then he opened his door. He could hear Greg coming out behind him. Climbing the stairs of the building, he thought of what he was going to do first: fingerprint the gun.

He headed to a small lab and took the gun out of its bag. A small, clear plastic rectangular case stood on the desk. On the bottom was a juice cap with a few drops of dried glue in it. It was fairly simple to fume things for fingerprints. With care, he hung the gun by the barrel inside of the case, put some drops of wet super-glue on the bottom, and sealed it air-tight. He had but to sit and watch as the fingerprints appeared on the gun's handle. As soon as they were clear, he took the gun out, dusted fingerprint powder on them, and tape-lifted them for comparison. Warrick lifted one of them up to the light, smiling at it proudly. These had to belong to Roger Mason.

Without having to think about it, he scanned the prints into the database, then sat back in his chair, staring and waiting for the match. There was no doubt in his mind of who was going to pop up. However, he was met with a slight surprise: two names popped up. One belonging to Roger Mason, of course. The other, though, was a cop by the name of Larson Wolfe. For a minute he stared, confused, wondering how in the hell this Wolfe guy's prints got on the gun and who he was. Then it hit him. It was the most obvious answer to the obvious question he had forgotten to ask: Where did Roger Mason get the weapon in the first place? Stupid! He was so used to people just having guns that he forgot Roger wouldn't be allowed to carry one in jail.

He had to go back and interrogate the cops now. But if Nick found out about his mistake, he would surely be laughed at. So he would just go back by himself and face the stupid media. Leaving his CSI jacket behind and grabbing his car keys, Warrick made his way outside into the sweltering heat. Another surprise found him as he stepped outside: Greg was standing there looking out into the parking lot, his spiked hair blowing in the hot wind. Warrick shook himself out of a daze and went past him as he gave a small wave.

"Where are you going?" Greg asked.

"I'm..." Warrick paused. There didn't seem to be a point to lying to Greg: he was a rookie after all. "I'm going to go interrogate one of the cops at the courthouse."

"Can I come?" asked Greg.

Warrick thought about it for a minute. He didn't see the harm in it, perhaps Greg had finally given up on that mint thing and wanted to help out. He got in his car, and they drove to the courthouse. It was still quiet in the car, but less quiet because he had turned the radio on.

The media flew out at them once more when they went over to talk to the cops. It was getting very annoying. Warrick had the print-out of Larson Wolfe and looked around for someone who looked like the picture. It was difficult - most of the cops looked exactly the same to him. He turned to Greg to ask for aid, but Greg had wandered off and was talking to a cop that definitely wasn't who he was looking for. Warrick shrugged. Maybe he had found out something interesting after all.

At last, he decided to just come out and say it. He approached a fairly thin and young cop with brown hair that wasn't a natural color. He stood out from the crowd because he was not wearing his uniform shirt but a bright orange one with his badge clipped to the pocket.

"Excuse me," Warrick said politely, "Do you know where Larson Wolfe is?"

The cop nodded. "That's me," he answered. "What can I do for you?"

Warrick couldn't help but stare at the orange shirt. Wolfe noticed.

"If you're wondering about the shirt," he said, "I got a lot of blood on my uniform. They let me change out of it, but the bloody shirt's in a paper bag somewhere." He looked around him and picked up a brown paper bag, handing it to Warrick. "Here."

"How - how did you get blood on your shirt in the first place?" asked Warrick curiously, putting on a glove and picking up a cop shirt covered in blood.

"Ah," said Wolfe, turning slightly red. "See, I kinda dozed off in the middle of my shift. I woke up when I heard a gunshot. It's damn dark in there, you know." He pointed to the cell room. "You've been in there. The lights have been working funny for a while. So...I wanted to see if something happened to one of the criminals. The only way to tell was to go inside and check it out. I checked Roger's first, but he was breathing fine: I thought he was asleep. I guess he was just pretending, eh?"

He looked sadly down at the ground. Warrick felt bad for him for some reason, but then remembered the question he had meant to ask in the first place. "Did you know that your gun is missing?"

"What?" he looked down at his belt in surprise. "Oh my gosh, so it is!" He looked up desperately at Warrick. "Look, have you seen it around?" Wolfe got down on his hands and knees, searching for it. "'Cos I ain't exactly got a clean slate with this thing...oh, shit.."

"Well, then," said Warrick comically, "I've got some good news and some bad news. The good news is, I know where your gun is."

"You do!" cried Wolfe jubilantly, jumping to his feet. "Where is it?"

"That's the bad news," said Warrick. "It's our murder weapon."

Wolfe put a hand to his mouth, suppressing tears, or so it seemed. "No...no..." he said. "That little – he must've taken it from me when I brought him some food! The little sneak!"

"Who?" asked Warrick, pressing on. This interview was turning out better than he expected - the culprit's identity was on the tip of this man's tongue.

"Roger!" he cried, his face contorted with disgust. "He probably tried to blame _me_ for his brother's murder!"

"Exactly," said Warrick accidentally out loud, extremely happy about the results of this interview until it struck him that there was something odd about Wolfe's answer. He calling the culprit by his first name, as thought they were on good terms. "Wait...do you know the suspect?"

Wolfe's face went red again. "Yes," he muttered, apparently ashamed of himself. "We went to the Academy together. He and his brother and I."

"The victim?" Warrick asked, surprised. This interview was getting more interesting by the minute. "You knew the victim?"

"Yes," he confirmed shyly. "David Mason. He and Roger went on to become CSIs and I became a cop. Roger was a friend of mine, actually, but I haven't spoken to him in years."

"And...his being arrested for kidnaping and attempted murder...did that surprise you?"

Warrick didn't expect Wolfe to shake his head. "No, can't say it surprised me. He hated his brother. I never saw anything too bad going down between them, but sometimes he would come to class with those cuts on his face and bruises. I remember asking him what happened. One day he just came out and said that it was his brother. But I couldn't do anything about it. I...kept telling him to report it, but he didn't and...now look what happened."

The while he told his story, he didn't look at Warrick in the face. Not as though he were hiding something, but as though he was deeply sorry about something. But Warrick didn't need to investigate any further. This only further proved the theory that it was Roger who did it. He only needed one more question answered.

"Who was on duty that night with you?"

"It was me and Con," he nodded towards a stocky cop who was at least 10 years his senior who Greg was talking to. "Connor Bradshaw. From late last night till morning."

"Thanks a lot," said Warrick. He turned to get Greg. This was perfect. His theory was flawless. In his mind, he thought out the story. Roger was tired of David abusing him, so when Wolfe brought him his food, he stole his gun and later shot him. The note was probably planted after Wolfe checked up on him. The aspirin was meaningless. He couldn't wait to get back to the lab and tell the other two that he had solved the case.

**Greg:**

"I'm going to follow my clue, too," said Greg, holding up the bag with the aspirin in it. It felt a little silly, but this thing must be here for a reason. He had heard about cases that were broken open because of stray pills or breath mints, maybe this was one of those cases.

Warrick scoffed. "I don't think headache medicine is going to help us much on this case," he said.

"Well, _you_ found it," said Greg. "And for all we know it has _everything_ to do with the case!"

Although he said this, he was skeptical. Warrick probably was right, but he wasn't going to let him think that. And if the pill led him to a dead end, then so be it. He didn't want to help either of the other two: Warrick was determined to prove that it was Roger. And Nick was out to prove that David had killed himself, which he sincerely doubted. He had a quick flashback to that time in the rain, standing there and silently begging them not to kill him. David wouldn't have turned the gun on himself: he didn't have the courage.

He and Warrick went outside the cells and into the flashing bulb lights of the reporters. Hurriedly getting out of there, he clambered into the back seat of Nick's car, thinking about what the hell he was supposed to do with what he found. It was so quiet that he was able to think straight, but he still hadn't come up with a good idea by the time they pulled up to the lab. He wanted to continue sitting there and thinking of something, but Nick and Warrick ran out of the car so quickly that Greg, fearing being locked in there, had no choice but to follow.

By the time he walked inside the shade of the building, the other two were already gone. He decided that the first thing to do was to find out what in the world this thing was. And the only way to do that was to bring it to trace. Reluctantly, he paid a visit to David Hodges, someone he did not like much but would be forced to cooperate with for the moment being.

Hodges looked up. "Hi, Sanders," he said. "I half expected you to let yourself be kidnaped again while everyone was out." Greg turned red but tried to ignore him. He knew he was just teasing, but it was annoying.

"Look, Hodges," he returned, "I need you to do your job for once and find out what this is." He took out the zip-lock with the pill in it. Hodges leaned over it, looking at it hard.

"It's an aspirin," said Hodges. "Job done."

"More specifically," said Greg, trying to sound like he was doing something important and that he had some idea of what to do with the results.

"Fine, fine," he took it under the microscope and various other instruments that Greg was only vaguely sure of how to work. This room was filled with more technical equipment than his own lab. He had always wondered what working in trace was like. So many things you had to know about instead of just DNA stuff. Glass and paint and whatnot.

The analysis came back in ten minutes, through which Greg stood patiently, pending the results and hoping that they were interesting. At last, a big square machine printed out the results, which Hodges read to himself before handing over the desk to Greg.

"Okay, I was wrong," said Hodges. It was rare that he admitted this. "It's prescription sedatives. Like, for someone who can't sleep. It's the stuff with the creepy green moth in the commercials. You know, Lunesta?"

"Yeah," said Greg, automatically revering back to those commercials. "Can you check how many people in Nevada have a prescription for Lunesta?"

"Yeah, why not?" said Hodges in a bored tone, leaning over to his computer and looking it up. "I got nothing else to do...ah. Here you go. Have fun. One hundred thirty-five."

Greg walked over to see the screen, scanning through the names, seeing if any popped up. None of them rang a bell. But he did notice that some of them were registered cops. "Can you narrow it down to how many cops in Nevada have a prescription for Lunesta?"

"Fine, fine," said Hodges, clicking a few times until all that was on the screen were the profiles of three cops. "Ooh, our final three. Eric Hodgenson, Connor Bradshaw, aaaaand...Stephanie Wheeler."

But Greg was fixed on Connor Bradshaw. Under current employment, it said "Las Vegas Court House." He seized the mouse from Hodges's hand and clicked on him so the profile took up the contents of the entire screen. This was the guy. The profile began printing and Greg took it. Without another word to Hodges, he left the office. That was before he realized he didn't know what this had to do with anything. Once again, he now had nothing to do. The first thing that popped into his head to do when one was at a dead end: go back to the dead body. So he took a turn down the corridor and paid a visit to David and David.

The coroner looked up as he entered and actually gave a smile. "So, Greg, you're working on the case, too?" he asked. "In that case, I have the tox report back for you. It had some interesting results."

"Tox report?" Greg said softly, but David must've not head him, for he continued talking as though he hadn't said anything.

"Now it's not enough to kill him," admitted David, "but he had traces of some sort of sedative in his blood. But it was nearly twice the normal dosage."

"Sedative?" said Greg, raising his eyebrows. "Like...Lunesta?"

"Lunesta would do it," David nodded. "And I doubt he took these pills himself. I mean, he was in a holding cell. That's almost like a jail cell. Now, I'm no CSI, but someone drugged this guy. Any ideas who?"

"Yeah..." said Greg, staring off into space. He could hardly believe it - that stupid little pill had actually sent him down the right path. "Thanks...thanks a lot." This was just too incredible to express how happy he was.

Instinctively, he ran outside into the hot sun before he stopped on the top of the staircase, wondering what to do next. He didn't want to admit it, but he was a little bit afraid to go to the courthouse by himself. He didn't want to leave the grounds without informing someone where he was going, after what happened to him before, they'd probably go berserk. And if he informed them of where he was going and led them to a dead end, they'd laugh. He didn't like people laughing at him, and if he wanted to become a CSI as soon as possible, he would have to be a bit more professional. If only someone else was headed there. ..

As though someone had read his mind, the door opened and out walked Warrick. He waved hello as soon as he stepped out, but Warrick was quick on his feet and had practically raced down the stairs. What was he in such a rush for?

"Where are you going?" Greg called.

"I'm..." Warrick hesitated. "I'm going to interrogate one of the cops at the courthouse."

It was as though the stars were falling from the sky. Greg's heart lept: this was perfect. But Warrick had turned to leave faster than he could ask to come along. He shouted after him, "Can I come?" He stopped in his tracks. Greg supposed that meant yes. He ran down the stairs and jumped into the car. Warrick turned the radio on and soon the two were off.

The courthouse was as filled with media people as before, but this time they had less of a chance to flash pictures of them as they walked quickly. Warrick took out a paper and began comparing it to the cops around them, but Greg spotted Connor Bradshaw at once. He was pretty stocky and had pure blonde hair on his head that Greg was almost sure was a toupee.

"Excuse me," he said politely, approaching the man with caution, "Is your name Connor Bradshaw?"

"Yep, what can I do for ya, kid?" he asked as though he were a baseball hero. Greg scowled. Did he really look that young? He was tired of people calling him "kid."

"I'm actually here to ask you some questions," said Greg with a tone of authority. "Were you on duty at the time of David Mason's murder?"

"Oh, yes," said Bradshaw uncomfortably. "It was me and Wolfe." He pointed at a kid in a bright orange shirt whom Warrick was now approaching. "That was a bad experience."

"Well, a man _was_ murdered," Greg said obviously. "Can you tell me what happened?"

"I don't really recall things well anymore," he said, twisting his hands nervously. That was a sign of some sort of guilt. "All I remember is I stepped out and heard a gunshot. It was loud. And the next thing I remember is Wolfie yelling that someone had been shot. So I called 911."

"Uh-huh," said Greg. This guy was definitely guilty. His eyes were darting, he was sweating, and his story wasn't exactly straight. 'Mr. Bradshaw, do you have trouble sleeping?"

Bradshaw nodded. "Yeah. I can't seem to go to sleep at night, which is funny 'cos I wake up about 5 AM. I got a prescription sleep aid, though. You know the one with the green butterfly in the commercial?"

"Yes, Lunesta," said Greg. He was starting to feel of superior intelligence to this guy. "Did you know that David Mason doesn't have a prescription for Lunesta?"

"Well, I'm sure he doesn't," said Bradshaw, getting more nervous and suspicious by the minute. "He's a lucky guy, then."

"Lucky, sure," Greg said sarcastically. "He got murdered. Not only that...but we found that he actually had a sleep aid in his system. Can you explain that?"

"Well...I..." Bradshaw's face went pale at once. "See...I...look, you were involved in the case, right?"

Greg couldn't lie about that, as much as he didn't want to admit it. He replied in the affirmative.

"Well, you know, he's loud!" said the cop in exasperation. "He wouldn't shut up! Ask Wolfie, he'll tell you how much he was yelling and kicking the bars. Probably knew he was going to be convicted. And...see, I get these terrible headaches. And he was starting to give me one. So I...I slipped some in his food. Just to quiet him down."

"Why is it, then, that he had _twice_ the normal dosage in him?" asked Greg suspiciously.

The cop shrugged. "I don't know how much I gave him. But when he was done eating, he was quieter. Only thing he said was that he wanted a piece of paper and a pen. I never did get that pen back..." he trailed off, thoughtfully.

"I wouldn't worry about the pen, if I were you," said Greg. "It's illegal to share your prescription drugs with someone else. Even if it is for...practical purposes."

He felt a tap on his shoulder and turned to find Warrick.

"C'mon, let's go," said Warrick. He had a large grin on his face and seemed very pleased with himself. "I solved the case."

"Really?" said Greg. "Who did it?"

"A no-brainer, Greg, it was the brother."

Greg let out an automatic cry. "No!" he said. "You're wrong! I haven't finished my case yet, I'm in the middle of proving it was a cop." Bradshaw backed away slowly.

"Hey!" came a call from across the room. They both searched for the source and found Nick standing in the doorway. "Where were you two? I was just looking for you to tell you I solved the case! I confirmed that the note is David's handwriting. He committed suicide!"

"What?" said both Warrick and Greg at once. Maybe this case would be harder than they thought.

**Author's Note: **Yes, this is the end of the chapter. I'm going away to Florida for a week, so I won's be able to update until after that. I hope this keeps you in suspense and keeps you guessing.

PS: If anyone would like to take a guess at which one of the CSIs's theories on how David Mason died is correct (one of them is correct), please feel free to email me. Maybe I'll tell you if you're right.


	21. Dont Be Hasty: Blackjack

**Chapter Twenty-One: Don't Be Hasty**

"**W**e are entering day three of the investigation of the Las Vegas Courthouse murder. Yes, it was three days ago that kidnaping suspect David Mason was found dead in his holding cell, shot in the head. There were three people present at the time of his death: two officers, Larson Wolfe and Connor Bradshaw, and another suspect that was being held there, the victim's own brother, Roger Mason, who is currently being held in the county jail. Although he is an extremely likely suspect, new evidence shows that this untimely death may not have been a homicide, in fact...but a suicide. More reports are on the way as-"

These sounds from the television filled the room where Nick, Warrick, and Greg sat at a table, staring at the screen. Their investigation had reached a dead end. Several dead ends, actually. For each of the Level Three's was biased towards their own opinion and Greg had been forced to withhold the further questioning of Officer Bradshaw.

"Turn it off," Greg mumbled, banging his head on the table and closing his eyes. Warrick pressed "power" on the remote control and the sounds stopped. "Stupid newscaster. Go and tell the world that we don't know what we're doing."

"Ah, I guess it serves us right for arguing about our case in a room full of reporters," Nick said, folding his arms. "And anyway, it _was_ a suicide."

The other two put their hands over their ears. They had been through this so many times.

"That gun was found in _Roger's_ cell, Nick," Warrick said loudly, pointing to his evidence laid out on the table and nearly hidden under all their paperwork. "His fingerprints were on it. He had motive. He was there. End of story."

"It was a cop's gun!" cried Greg, slightly muffled by the table. "A _cop._ I got Bradshaw to admit that he drugged David in order to shut him up." He put a hand on the table and groped around blindly for the notes on his interview, but couldn't find them.

"Yeah, but he died because there was a _bullet_ in his head, Greg, not of drug overdose," said Warrick, tired of Greg's theory based on a pill. "And it was Wolfe's gun, not Bradshaw's."

"And the note!" Nick called out. "The suicide note!"

"Just because he wrote the note doesn't mean he actually killed himself," Warrick sighed obviously. "And that pill didn't kill him. So let's focus more on what matters - the murder weapon."

"Ooh, this is a pointless!" Nick burst out, jumping out of his chair. "This investigation is going nowhere! Let's just call this case unsolved and move on with our lives!"

"No!" cried Greg, popping up automatically. "No. I know what to do. We have to call in someone else."

"No, we don't!" snapped Nick. "We can do this case fine by ourselves. It's already got two more people on it than necessary."

"Well, it's too late for that," Greg sighed. "I already got Grissom."

"What!" Warrick said, jumping up as well. "When did you do that?"

"Remember when I said I was going to the bathroom?" Greg reminisced, his eyes darting to the door. "I lied."

With unbelievable timing, their boss appeared in the doorway. He waved casually and strode into the room, ignoring the hostility surrounding him.

"So what's the problem?" Grissom asked, approaching the table full of scattered evidence.

"We're at a standstill," Greg answered while the other two glared at him as though he had betrayed them. "The evidence doesn't point in any one direction."

"Hmmm..." Grissom looked over the evidence, the reports, and the notes on the interviews. They watched him in silence as he read through everything. After a few minutes, he announced, "I know who did it."

"What?" Nick blurted out, forgetting his vow to be grudgingly silent. "Who did it? It was a suicide, wasn't it, Boss?"

"No, Nick, it wasn't a suicide," he said seriously. "I'll tell you that much because you should have realized it already. It's clear that all of your biases for your own evidence have blinded you to the truth. So I want you to figure it out for yourselves. Meanwhile, I'll keep an eye on the culpirt and make sure he doesn't do anything suspicious." He turned to leave as they all stared on, open-mouthed that their boss would do something like this. "Working together is an important lesson in becoming a CSI, Greg," Grissom noted. "And that works for the other two as well. I'll just give you one hint. Time is everything." He then disappeared as suddenly as he had come.

"I can't believe him!" said Nick, thoroughly annoyed that his theory was wrong. "Why didn't he just tell us? And if he didn't commit suicide, then what's with the note?"

"Let's just do what he said," Warrick replied, sitting back down and gathering all the papers near him. "We'll go over all the evidence together."

He sorted all the paper into three piles, the three groups of evidence that each one of them had gathered. Then he pulled one towards him.

"Nicky," he said to the CSI standing over his shoulder. "We'll start with yours, just so we know what the hell that note was all about."

"I guess there really isn't that much evidence on it after all," said Nick, looking at the three pages. "All I have on that is that David Mason wrote it. I assume the 'Roger' in the note is his brother. And this is an apology for all he put him through."

"But David Mason's not the sort of person to apologize for such a thing," said Greg, sitting down beside Warrick and rememberingthe personality of the devious victim. "At court he was laughing at Roger's pain and sorrow." He bit his lip, finding it difficult to say these words. After a moment, he continued. "So the question isn't really who wrote this note, it's _why_ he wrote this note."

"Scared, maybe," Warrick mumbled. "Maybe he thought he was going to die. People get sentimental on their deathbeds."

"He's the sort of person who would embrace death," Greg said softly.

"Well, before the why, let's think of the other questions," Nick said, getting slightly off topic. "Who? David Mason. What? A letter. When? Three days ago. Where? In his holding cell. How? Pen and paper obviously-"

"Pen and paper?" said Greg. Something sparked in his mind at these words. Grabbing his own pile of interviews, he flipped through it rapidly until he reached the very last paper. He thrust it down on the table and pointed to one of the last lines: _Asked for a piece of paper and a pen._

'Who was this interview with?" asked Nick curiously. He scanned the rest of the page until he saw a name on the top. "Connor Bradshaw."

Warrick pulled the papers out of Nick's hand and started going through them himself. "Never mind who it was with...look at the rest of the interview. He says he gave David Lunesta, you know that prescription sleep aid with the green moth, and then he asked for a pen and paper...he wrote this note while under the influence of the sedative!"

"That's right!" Greg shouted, remembering something. "The coroner said that he didn't have enough sedative in him to kill him...but with that much, he'd be acting funny."

"So we got the why on the note," said Nick. "Do you think he was acting funny enough to shoot himself in the head?"

"Ni-i-i-ick!" yelled both Warrick and Greg at once.

"Sorry. Glad I didn't make a bet on this one, eh, Rick?" He grinned.

"So we got your clue figured out, Nick, and we got your clue figured out, Greg," said Warrick, now reaching over for his own pile of evidence. "And neither of them conclude who the killer was. They just explain the random evidence we found. But now..." he smiled, "we get to start on the _real_ investigation. My evidence actually points a finger at a killer with real evidence. This report from DNA," he slid over the fingerprint comparison so that Greg could see it properly, "says that Roger's fingerprints were on the gun."

"But his weren't the _only_ fingerprints on the gun," Greg noted, pointing to the results on the page. "It was Roger's and Larson Wolfe's."

"Well of course his fingerprints were on the gun, Greg," Nick said. "It was his gun. But this interview here..." he picked up Warrick's interview with the gun's owner and skimmed through it. "...Wolfe says that when he came to bring Roger his food that evening, 'that little sneak' took his gun from its holster."

"He's lying!" Greg cried. "We have no proof that his account is true!"

Warrick and Nick exchanged a glance. The Warrick said slowly and soothingly, "Except for Roger's fingerprints on the murder weapon."

Greg looked down sadly. All the evidence was pointing to Roger. Perhaps he was wrong about him all along.

"Don't worry about it," said Nick comfortingly, slapping his shoulder in a friendly gesture. "I'm sure that in the future you'll find...other abused people to get attached to. And I'm sure those people won't have actually killed - hey, what are you doing?"

For Greg had gotten up, reached over, and grabbed his own pile of evidence. He was now flipping though the papers at record speed, obviously looking for something specific. As he got to one of the last pages, he let out a "ha!" and pointed to a note he took on the interview with Bradshaw. The other two glanced at it but had no idea what this had to do with anything. Nick shook his head in an answer, making Greg roll his eyes and explain as though it were obvious. "The other officer! He said...that he heard a gunshot and _ran into the room_. What was he doing out of there?"

Warrick opened and closed his mouth a few times before taking the paper himself and looking for an answer. But he didn't find it. He shrugged.

"Bring in the officers!" Greg ordered, standing up with his hands on his hips. This was just starting to get interesting.

**Author's Note:** Chapter 21, and you know what that means...BLACKJACK!  
Don't worry, I'm not gonna drag this on forever, just until I get bored by it.


	22. Three Time, part one

**Chapter Twenty-Two Three/Time, part one. **

(Don't worry, this isn't another stupid two-part trial thing, but I'm not sure what else to call it besides "part one." This is a chapter that I was nearly done writing when a different idea, a better idea, sparked in my head for how to end this thing. So, I offer you readers a choice. I've decided to post them both.

Part One: That's this one. It's incredibly straight-forward and has no action whatsoever. It tells you how the clues tie up and stuff.

Part Two: That's the next chapter. That one is more fun. It doesn't quite follow the clues, but it adds more clues that are far more obvious.

Personally, I reccomend reading part two and then part one.)

**C**onnor Bradshaw entered the interrogation room, sweating profusely and nervously, his teeth chattering, his hands shaking. He sat down in front of Warrick, Nick, and Greg, taking out a tissue to blow his nose, which was running. They had never seen an innocent person shake like this before, unless it was a child, but there's a first to everything. They weren't here to prosecute him, they had no evidence against him. But they weren't going to let him know that.

"So, Officer Bradshaw," Nick said in his best serious voice, "it seems as though you've been fooling off on your job."

"Fooling - fooling off?" stammered Bradshaw, his eyes darting around the room. "Don't know...don't know what you mean."

The three of them gave him a hard look. "Your interview," Greg continued, "states that you heard a gunshot while you were out of the room."

"Yes, I did," Bradshaw confirmed, slightly less nervous.

"So why were you out of the room?"

Bradshaw breathed a sigh of relief, genuinely calmed by this question. "Is that all?" He laughed modestly. "I thought you were gonna..." he laughed a little more. The three of them stared, wondering why he was laughing in such a serious situation, especially since he had been nervous a few seconds ago.

"Well...answer the question," Greg pressed.

"I went out twice," Bradshaw answered. "First, I went to get the food. It's my job to do that, Wolfie prefers to stay and keep an eye on 'em while I go out. And I came back in and I gave 'em the food."

"And that's how you slipped him the Lunesta," Nick said seriously.

"Er...yeah." said Bradshaw, turning red. "Look, I already told you I was sorry about that," he pleaded to Greg.

"Relax, we're not persecuting you for that," Greg answered. The officer breathed another sigh of relief. "What was the second time?"

"Food again," he said. "Me and Wolfie were on duty a long, long time. From after the trial 'till early in the mornin'. That's when I heard the gunshot."

"But wait...the murder occured at night," said Warrick. "Weren't you taken off duty when Roger was taken into custody for the murder?"

"No, it didn't," said Bradshaw. "It happened that morning."

The three of them sat up, confused. "What do you mean?" shouted Nick. "Of course the murder happened at night, that's why no one's sure who did it. It was dark-"

"I think I know what I'm talking about," said Bradshaw. "Don't you people read the newspaper? 'David Mason, found dead in his cell the morning after his trial,'" he quoted. "What's you CSIs assuming it was at night?"

"You said it yourself!" said Greg, noting the interview. "I asked, 'were you on duty at the time of David Mason's murder,' and you said 'that was a bad night'!"

"Did I?" said Bradshaw, although there was no nervousness in his voice. "Well, I wasn't lying. It was a bad night. That guy wouldn't shut up. But he wasn't killed until morning."

"But it was dark..." Nick protested, but was interrupted.

"Of course it was dark," said Bradshaw, "there's no windows in there, it's a closed-off room, and the light's been acting funny. It was dark even when the sun was out. You've been in that room for your investigation. Tell me it wasn't dark."

But they couldn't tell him it wasn't dark, because it was. They had all dismissed the fact that when it said he was found dead in the morning, it actually meant he was killed in the morning. All three of them were simultaneously mentally slapping themselves for such a bad assumption.

"Thank you for your time," Warrick muttered, and the guard got up and left the room.

"Fat lotta help that was," Nick said when the door had closed behind him. "All we learned is that we're not fit for this investigation." He sighed, wishing that they had solved the case and were on to a more simple one, one that didn't involve people he had met, people whose cases he had been personally involved with. He buried his face in his hands, wondering if they should even bother bringing in Larson Wolfe, when a cry from Warrick answered his question.

"Bring in the other suspect!" he called, and both Greg and Nick looked over at his triumphant face. 'Suspect' is not a word one usually uses when referring to cops, and they hadn't used it when referring to the other cop. Which could only mean one thing: he had figured something out.

The door opened again, and this time, a skinny man walked in, completely calm as though he did this every day, answers planned in his mind. He sat down. Warrick's eyes narrowed.

"So, how are you?" Wolfe asked folding his arms. "Investigation going well?"

"No," said Greg honestly, forgetting he was interrogating someone. Nick elbowed him in the ribs to remind him of this fact, and he fell silent.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said, "but I don't know why you're bringing me in. I already answered all your questions."

"You lied," said Warrick. Nick, Greg, and Wolfe looked over at him in surprise.

"I beg your pardon," said Wolfe. "I didn't lie. I even told you about my history with the suspects. If there's something else, I guess I just forgot to mention it."

"Oh," said Warrick sarcastically. "And I suppose you also forgot that you weren't the person who fed the suspects that evening. Or...that morning."

Nick's eyes widened. Suddenly he understood everything. It was so clear at this moment that he felt stupid for ever suspecting the murder to be a suicide. He wanted to shout out everything he knew about the case, but kept quiet as to not tell the suspect his ideas, saying nothing except muttering three words to himself. "Time is everything," he whispered.

Wolfe's face remained relatively calm, but he couldn't hide the fact that the color had drained. "Oh, I guess I wasn't," he said. "I've done guard duty so many times, I've lost track."

"Bullshit," said Nick, restraining himself no longer. "Our evidence says that you stated that Roger Mason stole your gun when you went in to feed him. Were you mistaken on the fact that he stole your gun, too?"

"No!" cried Wolfe at once. "Of course not! I guess he must've taken it at some other point..."

"He didn't have the _chance_ at 'some other point,'" said Warrick. "The clock says you and Bradshaw checked in after the Mason brothers were securely locked in their cells. And we've been in there. He couldn't have reached through the bars and grabbed it without you noticing."

"The coroner," Greg added, enlightened, "stated that the bullet wound was straight on, like someone had shot him at close range and knew exactly what they were aiming for." He stood up, also understand, at last, who the killer really was. He pointed at him."You..." he said, his voice shaking. "You killed him. You killed him and you framed Roger for it."

Wolfe gave a sinister smile that reminded Greg strongly and ironically of the person who was certainly not innocent, but he was still the person he murdered.

"What did you expect?" he said. "Neither of them deserved the jobs they got, and they didn't appreciate them enough to keep them. They should have both gone to jail, but the judges...they were talking about dismissing Roger of the charges. I couldn't allow that. Not after all they'd done. And all they'd done to me. They abandoned me. And I got this stupid job. A criminal baby-sitter! That's what I am!"

He threw his badge down on the table and stood up, ready to be arrested. Tom escorted him from the room in a pair of handcuffs.

"You know what this means?" Greg said. "Catching David's murderer?"

Warrick nodded. "We drop those charges on Roger," he said and the three of them smiled.


	23. Three Time, part two

**Chapter Twenty-Two Three/Time, part two**

**F**or the third time in three days, a car from the Las Vegas Crime Lab was on its way to the Las Vegas Courthouse. Tired of driving, Warrick sat in the passenger seat of Nick's car, sweating profusely and grumbling under his breath about the phone call they had just placed. Three times, the three passengers had tried getting in contact with the officers they needed to interview again, but each of the three times, a reporter had picked up the phone in the hopes of tapping into breaking information. And as they approached the three story-high building, they saw the media situation was even worse ever since the slip that it might have been a suicide. They, meaning Warrick, Nick, and Greg, now knew that the slip wasn't accurate, but none of the people standing in the entrance hall with cameras, microphones, and notepads knew that. And so they swarmed when the door opened.

"Mr. Stokes, tell us, why do you think it was a suicide? Did he show any signs of wanting to kill himself?"

"Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown! Was the victim depressed? How exactly did he get a gun without the officers noticing?"

"Hey, kid with the blonde hair! Was a cop involved somehow?"

"Did they let the brother go?"

"What's your evidence?"

"Is there a conspiracy theory?"

"Is it over?"

They tried to ignore the people screaming over others, asking questions they didn't have answers to, some they didn't even know what they meant. But as they kept their silence and walked casually over to the officers who were doing a much worse job than yesterday at calming the media, like a hunting pack, the reporters cornered the three CSIs.

"Why aren't you answering our questions?"

"Is there something you're not telling us?"

"Why are there only two CSIs working on such an important case?"

"Shutup!" Nick finally called, pushing his way in between two men who were practically shoving microphones up his nose. Warrick followed closely behind him, and Greg brought up the rear.

"Three CSIs," he added. "Not two."

"There he is!" Warrick called, spotting Officer Bradshaw among the guards they had passed before. He fought his way through the crowd towards the large man, and approached him lightly. "We've been looking for you."

"Looking for me?" asked Bradshaw, slightly nervous-sounding. He took a hand and wiped sweat away from his forehead. "I told you all I know, all I did. That's all."

"I think you left a little something out," Nick interrogated. "Something...important."

Greg stood behind them and nodded along, glancing over the other guards that were conversing with each other, occasionally pushing a reporter back into the swarm. But there was something missing. No. Some_one_ missing.

"Where's Officer Wolfe?" Greg blurted out in the middle of Nick's sentence.

"Wolfie?" Bradshaw said. "He called in sick. Poor kid. I wonder if he got green cos of all the blood on his new cop shirt."

"Yeah, whatever," said Nick. "The thing is that you said you were out when you heard the gunshot. Where exactly did you go?"

But Greg wasn't paying attention to the answer. Instead moved away from the other two, walking to the back of the room to where there was a room labeled "LOCKER ROOM." A warning sign sat under it: **Authorized Personnel Only**. Ignoring the sign, Greg turned the doorknob, pushed forward, and entered the cops' locker room.

He looked around but found no one was there except for him. Why hadn't they checked here before? He took a sidelong glance at the rows of lockers, set alphabetically, and walked towards them cautiously. Curiosity got the better of him when he saw the one labeled "Bradshaw." He gave the handle a tug and discovered that it had been left unlocked. He smiled.

There was a shelf on top that had on it a prescription bottle for Lunesta and various papers, and hanging by a rod that went across the middle was a spare uniform, size large, and a bagged lunch. On the inside of the door were photographs of a woman with rosy cheeks and long red hair, smiling broadly. One of them included a small boy with blonde hair and chubby cheeks and the officer himself: Bradshaw's wife and son. Greg gave the whole locker another lookover, but found nothing else. He closed the door slowly.

A creak went off somewhere. He turned sharply, but still didn't see anyone. Deciding it must have been the locker door, Greg moved on through the locker rows, until he saw a newly re-labeled one that said "Wolfe." But he didn't need to pull on it to know he wouldn't be able to get it open. A large 3-number combination lock was enclosed on the door. However, he didn't give up. Greg sat on the bench near the locker, thinking hard. He knew there was an old college trick for those people who couldn't remember their combinations, and even people who could remember the numbers would do it just in case. After five minutes or so, it hit him, and he looked down towards the bottom of the door. And sure enough, there was a small piece of paper sticking out from the bottom of the locker. Greg pulled out the slip and saw three numbers printed on it: 3, 17, 32. He turned the lock to those numbers and tugged, opening the lock. He pulled it off and opened the door, looking over its contents. On the top shelf was a bagged lunch and three bottles of water along with a book entitled _The Pancake Murders_. Greg smiled to himself as he had been reading the same book. There was nothing hung on the hook and on the bottom was a duffel bag. He leaned down and opened it, but found nothing inside but cartridges for a gun. It struck him as odd that someone would have a practically empty duffel bag in their locker, as there wasn't even a gun in there. He shrugged and turned to the inside of the door. His jaw dropped.

Wolfe also had pictures in his locker. But in every single one of them were two people that Greg recognized. A young man with neat, brown hair and a cut on his cheek, smiling next to Wolfe with his arm around his shoulder, and on the other side a blonde young man with glasses and a slightly sinister smile. Greg shook his head slightly in disbelief. But he knew who they were, and it couldn't possibly be anyone else. The Mason brothers. Greg took the picture that stood above Wolfe's degree in Forensics, and looked at it closely. This was just too weird.

"Hey," said a voice behind him. Greg, turned, holding the picture up, expecting to see Nick standing behind him, but it wasn't Nick. Instead, Greg found himself staring into the barrel of a standard cop gun. The hands clasped around that gun and the face behind it belonged to Larson Wolfe. Greg put his hands up.

"Get out of my locker," he said.

"Sorry," said Greg. "I'm with the investigation, I was just looking around, and-"

"You've seen too much," Wolfe said and he cocked the gun. Greg breathed hard. All three people in the picture he was holding had now held a gun in his face. He wondered if the third one would finally be the one to kill him. "I can't let you out of here. And to think, you almost believed that he killed himself. Well...I'm gonna make sure you still think that. The media doesn't need to know what really happened. We'll just give them a story that sounds plausible and they'll be happy."

Greg gaped. "It was you!" he cried. "You killed David. And you framed Roger!"

"Well...yes," said Wolfe. "Opportunity knocked. I answered. Is that a crime?"

"Opportunity?" Greg said. "He was your friend! They were both your friends!"

"Friends?" he asked rhetorically, his voice raised. "Friends would have helped me out. You know how I got this job? Sympathy. I was supposed to be a great scientist like them. You know? The brains behind the badges. But no. They went and left me and I got this job guarding criminals at midnight. But..I've said too much already. And to think you could have ended up like them. It's too late, though. Goodbye."

"I don't think so," said a voice from the doorway. Nick stood there, his gun raised, as ready to fire as Wolfe's. He grinned. "Hey, I get to be part of the action this time!" His smile faded as he got serious and Wolfe turned towards him.

"I _will_ shoot him," said Wolfe.

"And I _will_ shoot you," Nick retorted.

"Of course you will," Wolfe taunted. "You're going to shoot a cop. And I'm going to shoot a Junior CSI."

"Not without any bullets you won't," Greg said.

"I have bullets," Wolfe said, gripping tight to his weapon. "Care to test it?"

"I don't know whose gun you've got," Greg noted, "because we have yours. But you have all the cartridges in your locker. A standard gun comes with 5. There are 5 in there. Meaning that there are none in your weapon."

"Who says this is the same weapon?" said Wolfe, but he seemed unsure.

"Put down the weapon," said Nick, advancing on them. "Just do it."

Wolfe had no choice. He lowered the gun as Greg breathed a sigh of relief. Tom came into the locker room, clutching a pair of handcuffs, and pulled Wolfe's hands behind his back, reciting his Miranda rights. Nick hurried over to Greg.

"Greg, you alright?" he asked.

"I'm fine," Greg said. "I think I'm getting used to it."

Nick smiled. "That's good, I guess."

Greg smiled back. "You know what this means?" he asked. "Us catching David Mason's murderer."

Nick nodded. "We drop that charge on Roger."


	24. Don't Say Goodbye

**-Chapter Twenty Three- Don't Say Goodbye**

**A** large brick building stood before them on that hot summer's day. The sun reflected into their eyes as they glanced up at it, the light casting off the many windows, which were either locked or barred shut. Their feet tapped on the pavement of a path that led to the door of this building as they waited. A guard stopped them from coming within the barbed wire fence that surrounded the building, a high wire fence that encompassed a radius of 15 yards from the building.

Greg looked at his watch anxiously. The four of them, Nick, Warrick, Sarah, and himself had been waiting there for nearly an hour. Were they too late?

Then, at last, the door opened, and out walked three people. A guard stood all the way to the left, clad in his tan uniform, badge shining off the afternoon rays. A second guard stood all the way to right, wearing the same outfit and the same smug look as the other guard. They were both clutching the arms of the person in the middle: A middle aged man with short brown hair, a bruised eye, and a huge smile on his face. His hands stuck out weirdly in front of him because his wrists were bound together by handcuffs, but he could not look happier.

The gate opened and the guard who stopped the CSIs from entering stepped aside to let the prisoner out. He glanced over all their faces as they smiled at him, congratulating him. And at once, he ran over to Greg and nearly choked him with the chain on the handcuffs as he gave him a hug.

"Thank you," Roger said in a wavering voice that said he was close to tears, "for believing in me."

Greg said nothing back, but patted Roger's head, flushing bright red at the grinning faces of Nick and Warrick. Roger pulled away and did the same thing to Sara, although her hug was briefer. She smiled back at him and shook his hand amiably.

"Good to see you out of there," she said. "I told you prison wasn't worth it."

"It doesn't matter, I guess I have to go back anyway," Roger said, indicating that his wrists were still bonded. "But it's nice to be out, even if it is only for a few minutes. At least now I don't have to deal with a murder sentence."

"So now you want a small sentence," smiled Greg slyly. "Whatever happened to 'I want 25 to life away from my abusive brother'?"

Roger shook his head. "I never meant it that way. It's so hard to believe that he's dead."

"It's hard to believe you didn't kill him," said Sara. "I would have."

"I'm sorry the case took so long," Roger said, turning to Nick and Warrick and addressing them for the first time. "I was following it in the newspaper. You should've come to me, I would've told you that it was Larson. He was always jealous of David and I. I'm not going to be seeing him around prison, am I?"

Greg smiled again, and looked over at Sara. She smiled, too, and stepped forward. "I talked to Grissom about it," she started, "and he talked to the sheriff who talked to the county. And...I'm not pressing charges. And neither is Greg."

"You weren't pressing charges before," said Roger. "The county was."

"The thing about that is," said Sara, "since they know you didn't kill your brother, they feel bad for sending you to prison instead of another holding cell. So...they want to make you a free man."

"I only spent three days here," he noted. "That can't be it."

"It's not," said Sara, "but you're going to be out of here before Larson Wolfe ever has his trial. We made sure of that. But the catch is that when you get out, you're kind of fired."

"So the protocol goes," sighed Roger. "But...thanks. I don't deserve it."

"You do deserve it," said Nick, stepping forward. "You saved Sara. And you've had to live with being pushed around for ...how many years? No one should have to take that."

"Oh, that reminds me of the other thing," said Sara. "We also had you transferred to a minimum security prison. Everyday guys' jail. No guys like the ones in here."

Greg nodded in agreement as Roger beamed at him, his face filled with innumerable appreciation.

"No one will ever hurt you again."

_Fin_


End file.
